


Intricate Days

by gloss



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: 52 was a weird time, Anal Sex, Identity Porn, M/M, Sex Work, Time Travel, World's Finest, Young Justice - Freeform, old fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 02:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15596544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: "It's simple, see? You Nightwing, me Superboy."Time travel makes Kon's head hurt.Originally posted 9/8/2006.





	Intricate Days

**Author's Note:**

> Setting: YJ#30/Superboy #87 and 52 #9. I've played a bit with timelines to include Vesper Fairchild's sad demise.  
> Spoilers: Highly vague. If you've read IC/OYL issues (specifically, Infinite Crisis #7, Batman Annual #25, Nightwing #118, & Batman #653), you'll notice the references. If you haven't, those refs are light enough that they barely count as spoilers.
> 
> For Zee's long-gone birthday. She and Petra were kind enough to audience early bits; Jubilancy provided a wonderfully kick-ass beta of the whole; and G. ...didn't discourage me.

> You  
>  _wouldn't have known who_  
>  _was who, though. Those_  
>  _were intricate days._

One minute, everything's normal. Kon is in the living room at the headquarters, waving his arms as he yells at Robin. Robin regards him with that infuriating stare that _looks_ blank but isn't. It's full of disappointment that's flat and hard against Kon's face. Like he's being shoved up against a wall. A Rob-shaped wall. It makes him want to hit things. 

Bart buzzes around, weaving figure-eights between them as he begs them to stop, to calm down. If Kon wasn't quite so pissed right now, he'd laugh at the idea that _Bart_ wants someone to calm down. 

"Cheer up, guys!" A shower of confetti and balloons stirs in Bart's wake. "No fighting!" 

As the confetti settles, Kon keeps on yelling. "Don't look at me like that! Dude, Rob, you're --" 

"Grife, Kon, _please_ \--" That's Bart. He must be upset if he's cursing. Even if it's in Interlac. 

"Kon's upset," Robin tells Bart in that calm, cold voice. His boss voice. "He just needs to get it out of his, hmm. Overworked system." 

"Robin, c'mon --" Bart's whining. Kon is _this_ close to ripping someone's head off. 

He's not picky about whose head it is. Not right now. 

"Now," Rob says, turning back to Kon. It's oh-so-obvious that he's _not_ reacting to whatever expression Kon is wearing. He'd never give Kon the satisfaction. "Just admit it. You need me." 

Screw you, Kon doesn't say. He punches the wall instead. Forgets to bring up the aura, too. Ow. 

"Right. Well, _that_ was a positive contribution to our discussion. What do you think, Bart?" 

Kon cradles his fist in his other hand. "Look, Rob, I think --" 

Robin holds up his hand. "You never think. That's what we're arguing about. Or did you forget that already?" 

That's one moment. Kon is cursing himself for dropping the aura, fantasizing about wringing Robin's scrawny little neck, while Bart squeaks and Rob sneers, and then -- 

Then there's another moment. 

A tick of a clock that sounds like it's right between Kon's ears ("lots of room there," he can imagine Robin saying). 

Before him, Rob's figure is wavering, blinking in and out, _rippling_ like hot air over a highway. Kon throws himself forward. He rolls Robin out of the way as something _tugs_ at his leg. He's yanked back and then he's sliding along a tilting floor and _falling_ \-- 

And he doesn't fall, ever. He _flies_. 

But he falls now and the wind past his ears sounds like a woman's voice. Sounds like she's saying, "You'll do" and he twists and yells. 

\-- and he's on his ass, on concrete, in an alleyway. People are kicking him. 

It's night, and he can't see the sky but the air is cold, and they're _kicking_ him. 

"Leave me alone, Rob!" he mutters and rolls over and they kick harder. It doesn't hurt, not exactly, but it's annoying. Robin wouldn't ever kick him. If he ever did get violent, he'd be more likely to do some ninja nerve-strike. 

"Check this dork. What do you think, guys? Costume party?" a voice asks. "Refugee from Best of the 90s?" 

"Just a loser," someone else replies. He hocks and spit splatters on Kon's cheek. "Whatever he's doing, he's a _loser_. No wallet, either." Snort, and another kick. "Not in those stockings." 

"Hey!" Kon shouts, kicking out his TK just enough to get them to back off, until the gravel's crunching under their retreating feet. They're not stockings. They're _leggings_. 

A siren sounds, high and mean, in the near distance. "Let's get out of here --" a third voice says. 

* 

Kon waits until the siren passes, then stumbles out of the alley, brushing crap off his knees and calves. He's in a city, obviously. Loud and stinky, some place huge and crowded, writhing and glittering all around him. 

This isn't New York. Definitely not Metropolis. 

So when he looks up and sees a gargoyle even uglier than _Grokk_ silhouetted against the filthy, glowing sky, the fact of where he is doesn't come as a surprise. 

Not a surprise. More like an inevitable _weight_ somewhere inside his head that settles into fact. Gotham. 

Of course. Of _freaking_ course. Lately, his luck is just this bad. He laughs and has to grab a lamppost to hold himself up. The pedestrians give him a wide berth. 

Kon wanders the streets, trying to get a sense of the place. He knows that's a ridiculous prospect, but there aren't exactly many options. The last time he was here, everything was twisted and broken by the quake. It looks like this part of town survived unscathed. All the same, he's just as disoriented. Streets just end, or jog sharply right and change their names. 

He could fly, but Batman doesn't like metas in his city. 

On top of that, Rob has made it abundantly, _painfully_ clear that Kon never thinks. He just uses his powers, like some kind of trained monkey. 

So he'll think, damn it. He can do that. He'll show Rob who's a monkey. 

After all, Rob survives here, and he's got less than no superpowers. Rob might be the protege of the World's Greatest Detective, but Kon's hung out with him. Something must have rubbed off. 

Rob's more than just a protege, anyway. He's got a heart; Kon's pretty sure Batman totally lacks one of those. Soon as his X-ray vision kicks in, that's the first thing he's going to check. 

He walks what feels like a hundred and seventeen blocks, twisty little streets that never quite hold to a grid for very long at all. He walks all through the night, holding his jacket closed over his chest after the third jeer gets tossed his way from a passing car. 

He's never been embarrassed by the suit before. Now, though, he's starting to think it's a little...garish, maybe? 

It's not just Batman, apparently. No one here likes capes. 

"Screw 'em," Kon says out loud. 

Well, hardly anyone likes capes. In the course of the night, he passes six different graffiti'd versions of the **S** -crest -- painted on a brick wall, scratched into a street sign, scrawled on peeling handbills. They're all lopsided and upside down, just plain wrong, but Kon grins at them anyway. 

He's not entirely unwelcome here. 

There are no traces of the quake anywhere he goes. He means to file that fact away for considering later, but promptly forgets. 

By morning, he just wants to sit down. It's not that he's tired -- he doesn't get tired, he's _Superboy_ \-- just bored. He's not good at thinking, he's mapped out this particular neighborhood (Alleytown? Allen Town? He had trouble making out the gang tags) with his feet. 

He needs to take a load off. 

Plus, he's starving. 

He finds a grody little park at the end of the next street. Just some scrubby trees, a swing-set over cracked asphalt, and two rickety benches. Kon takes the bench that looks slightly-less liable-to-break at any moment. He slumps there, hooking his arms over the back and tilting his face up to the sky. 

He dozes a little, the sounds of the city waking up -- brakes squealing and the beep-beep-beep of delivery trucks backing up -- filtering out the worst of his headache. 

All he has to do is figure out how to get back to the headquarters. 

Easy, right? He'll walk out of Gotham, _then_ fly the rest of the way, and it'll be fine. He'd never figured on Gotham being so damn big, but that's a minor hitch. 

First, he'll sleep. 

He wakes to -- thank _God_ , not another kicking-and-spitting match, but someone shaking his shoulder. 

"Yo, boy, you crashing?" The voice is high, the face is sharp and pretty, the body is...okay, it's a guy. Dressed as a girl, skirt slit up to _here_ and tube top stretched over -- hmm. 

Kon can't help but lick the corner of his mouth. This guy has the finest rack he's seen since Cissie joined the team. 

Right, concentrate. "Crashed? Yeah," Kon says. A cold breeze is blowing through the park. A piece of newspaper wraps itself like a cat around the guy's fishnetted calf. "Here, let me get that --" 

He leans over, the drag queen cocks her hips like a can-can dancer, and then it all goes to hell. Deeper hell? 

Yes. _Much_ deeper. 

The page is from the Gotham Gazette. And it's dated years from now. From _then_. From where he came from. 

"Oh, _shit_ ," is all Kon can say. He's in the future. 

His head pounds, the boy-girl touches the back of his neck and says, "Honey?" and he is _so_ screwed. 

* 

Her name's Zarina. She's a little over twenty years old, a really pretty girl who'd been a miserable skinny boy in the suburbs. In Gotham, she's a princess, just one fallen on (temporary) hard times. She takes Kon back to the squat she shares in Alleytown with several other kids, gives him Frosted Flakes and a warm can of Zesti, lets him take her flip-out futon. 

There are several kids in the big, empty room, but Kon can't remember their names a second later. But they're cool, offering him a quilt and another Zesti. He prefers Soder, but -- beggars can't, et cetera. 

"Freaks gotta stay together," one of the other kids says. Vee, that's his name, a little girly boy with a fuschia buzz-cut and enough facial piercings to throw off his balance. 

He can't think of a better alias, so he tells them he's Carl Krummett, newly here from Metropolis. 

While Kon sacks out, Zarina runs errands. 

"You sold my uniform?!" He can't get up, because he's buck naked with only a thin cotton quilt wrapped around his waist, but if he could -- oh, if he _could_ get up, he'd be pacing. Three feet off the floor with his arms waving. "Why would you sell my uniform?" 

It's the **S**. The **S** makes you who you are. Like Kal told him, it means you're ready for the job _and_ that you're family. 

Zarina smiles at him, patient as Ma Kent. When she leans over to pat his shoulder, _that_ comparison evaporates. Her kimono gapes a little and Kon gets distracted by the swell of her breasts. Yum, breasts. 

But: Uniform. He has to focus. 

"Guy said it was almost authentic," she says. "Got you two hundred bucks for it, right down to the garters." 

"But it's _mine_!" he splutters. "I need it, it's _me_ , it's like --. Wait, what? _Almost_ authentic?" 

"Two. Hundred. Dollars," Zarina says, slowly, distinctly. "I don't think that's anything to turn down." 

"But --" Kon slumps back. Not too far, he doesn't want her to stop rubbing his arm, but enough to make his point. "I _liked_ my uniform." 

* 

He's on his own here. Zarina and her gang of merry girly-girls are nice and all, and they're taking good care of him, but he's on his own. In the sense of having to take care of himself, of needing to find his own way home. 

He can do this. He's not going to call Clark. He can handle this. He's years into the future and he can figure out what to do. 

He _can_. 

He just needs...a little help. 

Damn it, it's not like he can lie to _himself_. He's not Rob. So, yeah, he needs a lot of help. In fact, he needs Rob and that's okay, Kid, that's really okay. 

Just think. Where do you find Rob? 

Um. 

In Kon's mind's eye, next to the slo-mo loop of Angelina Jolie making out with Amy Yip, Robin's right there. His eyes narrow, the mask folding softly with the expression, and he shakes his head at Kon. Disappointment, thy name is Rob. 

I'm working on it! Kon shouts at him. Where do I find you? 

He _could_ just throw his head back and yell for Robin, but that's. That's. That's something _Clark_ would hear and Rob only _seems_ to have superpowers, he actually doesn't, and --. 

Hell with it. 

Criminals. You find Robin beating down the bad guys. That's who he is. 

So now Kon just has to find the bad guys. That shouldn't be hard, not here. 

"So," he says, pushing back from the rickety table in the kitchen. "Where do I find, like. The criminal element? The underworld. Penguin and Two-Face and all those guys. Riddler." 

Vee laughs at him. The noise is this crazy buzzsaw chortle that reminds Kon painfully of Bart on pixie sticks and a Powerpuff Girls marathon. "You _are_ new in town, aren't you?" 

"Something like that," Kon says. No one recognizes him. The absence of his uniform doesn't exactly help. "Help a buddy out?" 

"You want the underworld?" Vee stretches, a long, intricate series of adjustments like a cat in the sun. Kon can't help but think of Robin before a sparring session. All his careful stretches, perfectly measured and efficient. "You'll see more than enough tonight." 

The resemblance is blown when Vee goes back to arranging capsules and baggies of what isn't oregano. Kon checked, last night. He had to force himself not to flush the contents away. 

Because this is Gotham. And the future. He doesn't belong in either place. 

* 

Like everybody else, Kon has to earn his keep. When those two hundred bucks are gone, Vee and Zarina take him several blocks over to Boy's Stroll. Late-model minivans and ugly sedans cruise up and down the dead-end mews, looking for pretty faces and eager hands. Looking for sex. 

The thing is, Kon _likes_ sex. He likes sex a lot. Maybe it's because his mama was a test-tube, but he's never gotten how other people make sex into the be-all and end-all. Sex feels good, he feels good, nobody gets hurt, simple as that. 

Since he got here, he's made out with Vee a couple times and it was _good_. Even if Vee was jittery from various drugs. Zarina's tall and her skin's like organic honey and she smells a little like Tana. She looks like Big Barda or a non-evil Knockout, just dipped in milk chocolate; he's really into her. The bulge in her silk panties isn't a turn-off, it's more like a happy surprise in a box of Cracker Jack. 

But sex in Boy's Stroll is just sad. And depressing. And pretty fucking skeevy. 

Kon tries to tell himself he's undercover. Without his costume, though, he feels incredibly stupid. He's pretty sure that he looks like a freak, dolled up in a muscle-T and old jeans that are almost as tight as his costume, eyeliner circling his eyes, a carefully-coached pout on his face. But he's _popular_. Which is satisfying in one sense, super-ego-wise, but depressing in another. 

Look who he's popular _with_ : Business men, nylon ties loosened in sweaty collars, and dockworkers, tourists and shifty-eyed natives, they all like him. Kon keeps the aura up, his eyelids at half-mast. The aura is protective, almost numbing. He tries to imagine it being like the cotton that keeps vitamins fresh, but maybe it's more like a shroud. 

He tries to remember to do what he's told. Hard, though. He _hates_ taking orders. 

("That's putting it mildly," the Robin-in-his-head says.) 

So Kon tries to think of this as, like, a necessary obedience. If he's breaking the law, sooner or later, he _has_ to see Robin. If his bad luck holds, he'll see the Bat first, but even then -- then, he can get out of here and go back to his own time and he'll be okay. 

There are too many "ifs" in there for him to feel confident. At the same time, he doesn't have anything else to believe. 

He just has to get through this. The aura helps, his natural thoughtlessness ("You never think, you just _act_ ": Rob makes him sound as bad as Impulse. Kon's pretty sure he's not that bad) kicks in, and he can do this. 

Mostly, he sucks them off. Even through the aura, they taste like piss and sweat and he has to hide his grin at just how _small_ their dicks are. Pencil dicks, dirt under their fingernails, lips pulled back over yellowing teeth, it's all just pathetic. 

Kon had never thought sex would be so pathetic. So damn...sad. Sure, it makes you desperate. But he'd always enjoyed the desperation, that sharp knife-edge of need speeding you through the fun. It was a big part of the whole _point_. 

But desperate enough to drive all the way over here and duck their heads down into their collars whenever a car passes? Desperate enough to press damp tens into his hand and awkwardly pet his hair, to try and kiss him afterward at the same they're checking their watches and probably wondering if dinner's gotten cold back home? 

That's desperate to a degree that would make Kon sick if he let himself think about it. 

So he doesn't. Think, that is. 

* 

"Yeahhhhh," tonight's second john drawls out, sliding his palm down Kon's torso, cupping him through the jeans. The guy looks a bit sharper than the usual customer -- something about his blond hair, neatly combed, and the set to his mouth. Sharper, but still greasy. "Yeah, you'll do. You want to party?" 

"That's my line," Kon says before he catches himself. The john's eyeing him, stroking his thumb up and down Kon's fly. "I mean, um. Yeah, baby. Let's." 

The car's peeling away, john's hand clamped over his dick, before it occurs to Kon that maybe he should tell somebody where he's going. The first rule of Boy's Stroll, pounded into his brain by Zarina, Vee, and the other guys, was: _stay in touch_. 

He's starting to understand why Guardian and Robin and everyone else get so pissy with him. He can be really thick-headed sometimes. 

There's no time now to say anything. The car zooms uptown before plunging into the sudden, eerie darkness of Robinson Park. The round sodium lights hover like wide-spaced moons, barely making a dent against the gloom. 

Now they're spilling out onto a wide avenue, golden and alive with traffic heading for the Sprang Bridge. 

It hadn't occurred to Kon that he liked Alleytown -- what was there to like? -- but surrounded by the diamond-sharp glittering skyscrapers here, the broad sidewalks fronted by jewel-box boutiques, he feels more than a little out of place. He misses Alleytown's narrow curbs and narrow, six-story townhouses. The dirty brick and steaming gutters there feel much homier than this neighborhood's shining chrome and tidy, fenced-in trees. 

The car descends into a vast underground garage, all white walls and fluorescent light. 

"Here, have a treat. Made it myself--" Smiling crookedly, with just half his mouth, the john hands him a rainbow-colored capsule from the depths of his briefcase. Kon smiles and takes it, hating to lie. The thing glows slightly, seems to move like an inchworm in his palm. 

Spooked, he drops the capsule under the car as soon as he gets out. 

The party itself only makes him more uncomfortable. Kon hates feeling out of place. If there's one thing he's good at it, it's -- well, not fitting in so much as _enjoying_ wherever he is. But this party's creepy. He's not the only working kid here; there are goons and strippers and a general air of sleaze thicker than the smoke off his john's cigar. 

He earns some of the night's money in a guest room with two dye-job blondes. The john sits in an easy chair, fly open, eyes narrowed and intent. When Kon tries to touch him, he ducks away. 

"I _watch_ ," the john says. He pushes Kon back to the bed. "Give me something good to watch." 

Freak. Perv. 

Kon's sore, a little sticky, when he wanders back out into the party proper. The penthouse is walled with windows -- to his left, the city's spread out in shadows and glinting lights while to his right, there's just the winking necklace of harbor-lights, nearly drowning in the oily black of the sea. 

"Daddy's got business," the john tells him, sucking Kon's earlobe and patting his briefcase. "Don't go far." 

"Sure." Kon's mouth twists. He hopes it looks like a smile. 

The crowd expands, more wiseguys with sparkly airheads in tow, slinky hipsters, skeevy jerks. There're so many drugs he starts to think he's getting a contact high. Jangling jazz on the sound system crashes in counterpoint to all the raised voices. Deals going down, alliances shifting, liquor flowing fast and free for the parched cokeheads. He watches his john make his way across the floor, greet a guy in an electric blue suit, and retire to a side room. 

Kon rubs his hands together. Right. Undercover. 

He dumps a beer in one potted plant, pretends to snort a line of coke, then wipes it off his palm on the back of a pretty older woman with hair higher than Starfire's. 

He knows that if he was Rob, he'd have this party made. Within half an hour, all the faces would be memorized, every significant detail noted down for the cops. But he's not Rob, and he's not having any luck _finding_ Rob. It's not like he can just forget it all and have fun here. 

Kon gives it the old college (junior high?) try by talking to a girl in red. She'd be cute if she wasn't constantly sniffling, if she wasn't approximately the size and weight of an X-ray of herself. He thinks she's probably a Scientologist, one of those alien-worshipping freaks, because she's talking about Krypton and resurrection. Scientologist or supervillain, but there's no _way_ she knows who he is, even if she's eyeing him like the latest shipment from Bogota. 

He tries, but he's got the aura wrapped around him like a blanket, like his beloved binky, muffling everything. And he's _still_ freaked out and bored in equal measure. 

So when the window on the city side crashes open before someone's feet as he swings inside, Kon could almost clap with relief. With excitement. 

_This_ is more like it. The lights are cut, people are yelling, and the tinkle of glass around the thump of a body landing square in the middle of a couch is just about the best sound he's ever heard. 

Bodies shove past him, away from the window, buffeting his aura, making Kon rock on his feet as he grins. 

Someone shouts, "He's got Louie!" 

A gun goes off. 

Okay, not so much fun. Kon grabs the nearest three women and rushes them to the door, pushing the crowd ahead of him, clearing the main area. When he returns from the hallway, the lights come back on and the brightness slams into him. 

He blinks, not quite believing the sight before him. 

Silhouetted against the jagged teeth of the broken window, glowing slightly in the ambient city-light, like he's manifested from the shadows and the city itself, there's _Nightwing_. 

Hero to heroes everywhere, Rob's big brother, broad-shouldered and long, lean and _gorgeous_ : that Nightwing. With broken glass dusting his shoulders and his long black hair lifting slightly on the breeze. 

Nightwing has his arm around the neck of a skinny wiseguy, the same one the john was meeting with. That must be Louie; he's wriggling and spitting and not getting free. 

Kon starts forward. Stops when -- what the _hell_? 

All of a sudden, Nightwing's got a seriously scary knife, the blade _rippling_ and flashing, up against Louie's throat. 

Nightwing sees Kon and his lip curls. 

Kon raises his hands. "Hey, I'm on your side --" 

Which is a stupid thing to say, as one of the goons hugging the floor rolls and tries to yank Kon off his feet. Kon kicks him in the solar plexus and holds him down with his foot on the back of the guy's neck. 

Nightwing's yelling at Louie, pressing the knife into the soft skin of his throat. "Selling that shit to _kids_? What did I tell you, fucker? What. Did. I. Tell. You?" 

As the blade digs in, a curving lip of blood appears between skin and metal. Laughing, Nightwing snaps Louie's head back by the hair and sweeps the knife in a wide arc, showing it off to the room. He stops, stabbing the knife in the direction of a flunky crouched by the same potted plant that drank up Kon's cocktails. "Don't you fucking move --" 

But the jerk is a moron and keeps going for the gun strapped to his ankle. 

"I'll fucking cut his head off and make you carry it home!" Nightwing yells. 

For an agonizing moment, Kon is frozen, foot on the first guy's chest. It's a damn good bluff on Nightwing's part -- he's really acting like he would cut the guy -- but the most important thing is to get the gun away from the goon. 

He holds the fallen guy in place with the TK to make a grab for the wanna-be gunslinger, shoving him back and liberating the gun. As the goon slides down the shiny marble floor, Kon kicks his friend after him and breaks the gun in two. 

That leaves one more bodyguard plus Louie. 

"Keep back!" Nightwing waves the knife at Kon, but what's he going to do? _Cut_ him? Not likely. 

"Chill, man," Kon tells him, pulling the last goon by the tails of his cheap suit-jacket and patting him down for any guns before glancing back at Nightwing. "Seriously, just --" 

As Louie glurbles and coughs up blood, Nightwing thrusts the flat of the blade back against his throat. Kon flies forward. 

Jesus, he hasn't flown in days. Even though his toes are still skimming the floor, this feels _amazing_. Just -- rad. And awesome. Obviously, Nightwing's been whammied by something -- Gotham spits up just about every imaginable drug, pharmaceutical _and_ mystical -- so the point is to get him out of here before he does something he can't take back. 

"Stay back, asshole!" Nightwing shouts. 

"No can do, hombre." Kon grabs him one-handed and keeps on going, out through the window, into the night. 

Now Nightwing's _really_ fighting him, sweat and spit flying, twisting against Kon's grip. 

If he was thinking at all, Kon would be glad that no one, especially not Superman or Robin, can see him right now. It feels so damn good to fly, even in this stupid outfit, like he's _free_ , finally, perfectly, that he's whooping over and over. 

Air on his face, Nightwing cursing him out: it's perfect. 

"You okay?" Kon shouts over the rush of wind. Nightwing _must_ have been dosed with something. Maybe mojo'd, but whatever it is, they're out now and he's flying. 

"Fuck _you_ \--" 

"Okay," Kon says, laughing, whooping, enjoying the ride. 

Just air and the humid pressure of Nightwing's _body_ against Kon's. 

Nightwing tucks into a pike, trying to shoot a grapple at the same time. It clunks against the spire of a church. Kon follows it until they touch down, stumbling down the steep tiles of the roof. 

As soon as the roof levels out, Nightwing pulls the knife on him. Kon's still laughing, but he's ready for it. And, okay, he's showing off a little, tipping the knife out of Nightwing's fist with his pinky-finger, but -- _damn_ , but he feels good. 

"Man, you have no idea how happy I am to --" he starts but Nightwing shoves him back. Hard enough that it kind of tingles. 

"The fuck were you _doing_ back there?" 

"What?" Kon holds up his palms. " _Me_?" 

"I fucking _had_ that piece of shit and --" 

"Dude. Nightwing. _Breathe_." 

The guy's furious, sweat pouring down his face. His mouth works but no sound's coming out. 

Finally, Nightwing snarls, "You recognize me?" 

"Sure I do." Kon slings his arm around Nightwing's shoulder. "But you're not yourself." 

Nightwing laughs at him, a sharp little bark that hurts to hear. 

Kon tries again, pulling him closer. "You were about to cut that guy open --" 

Slinky as a cat, Nightwing shrugs off the touch. All the rage tightens under his costume as he says, "Who are you?" 

Just like that. Like he has no clue. 

It's not as if they've hung out or anything, but Kon was sure they were, like, nodding acquaintances. There was that whole misunderstanding when Roxy went all fire-demon and everything, but Kon was sure they'd sorted things out. He runs both his hands through his hair, shakes his head hard, and winces when his voice comes out all small and pathetic. "I'm Superboy." 

Nightwing laugh-barks again. "Uh-huh. Right." 

"I'm undercover, all right?" Kon spreads his arms and, _damn_ , but the makeup on his eyes is burning. "Why would I lie?" 

Nightwing grins at him. Sliver-flash of white teeth, then he shakes his head. "Lots of reasons, actually. Look, kid, you're --" 

He stops and looks Kon up and down. For a second, the look is _exactly_ like the kind the johns on Boy's Stroll use. Kon fights the urge to back up and look away. Fights it and _wins_ , score one for the clone-boy. 

He doesn't look away, but right back at Nightwing. Kon can keep this up all night. He just keeps staring, long enough that Nightwing's breathing finally slows back down. Not all the way, but enough, and Kon lets the grin spread back over his face. 

He doesn't recognize Kon, but whatever he was on seems to be draining away. So they're ahead of the curve, slightly. 

"Dude. Nightwing. It's _me_ \--" Kon can hear the babble start up inside his throat. 

Nightwing just shakes his head, once, deliberately. Do all Robins learn how to do that? Maybe it comes with the costume. 

While Kon's figuring that out, Nightwing shakes his head, shoves Kon back against the base of the cupola and -- 

Kisses him? 

It's a kiss like a punch, hard lips and harder teeth against Kon's and Kon starts to laugh, but then there's a real punch coming. 

No. Just a hand on his face, hard, holding him still. Nightwing _has_ to know who he is, so why is he bothering against the almighty TTK? There must be blue eyes under that mask, searching him. Kon's sure of that, but all he sees is _white_ , white lens as annoying and blank as Rob's. 

He snorts out the last of his laughter and says, his voice twisting more than he'd like, "You need something?" 

Nightwing grins at him, cold and flashing like steel, and kisses him again. Just as hard, just as brutal. Kon would never have thought the guy would be like this. He'd thought of Nightwing as...as something a little like Rob but a little like Clark, too. _Warm_ , somehow, and flexible, but this kiss is bruising (or would be, without the aura) and heavy. 

Kon pulls back, gasping. "Don't stop, man. I just --" He reaches up to Nightwing's temple, strokes the side of the mask. "Are all Robins this mean?" 

Nightwing kicks at Kon's left leg, spreads his stance and tightens his hand in Kon's hair. "Who _are_ you?" 

"C'mon, man, you know who I am," Kon says. Then a thought occurs to him. Not something in words, really, just a sense of...bats. Bats, and this city, and the goddamn _future_. "Answer the question." 

"I'm not Robin," Nightwing says, which is true, but on the other hand, but on the other other hand -- yes, of course he's not. 

Then again, do you ever _stop_ being Robin? 

"Right. Okay." Kon leans in, catching Nightwing's lip in his teeth. _Yeah_. This is what he's thought about, this soft plumpness, right here, and the weight of a body against his and it's all so damn _good_. 

"And you're not Superboy," Nightwing says. Like there wasn't a kiss in the middle, like he's not grinding against Kon's thigh. 

Under Kon's mouth, the skin on Nightwing's neck tastes salty and almost dirty, like peeled potatoes, hot and slick. 

"I _am_ Superboy," he mutters. He's starting to lose the exhilaration from the flight, starting to feel tired and cranky, and he's half-hard in these ugly jeans. 

"Prove it." Nightwing backs up, just a step. 

"I --" Kon looks around. "You sure Batman won't mind?" 

He's an _idiot_ , he's already flown, even if Nightwing made it look like a grapple-flight, so what's he got to lose? 

Snorting, Nightwing adjusts his jock. "Sure as anything, believe me." 

"Okay --" Kon jumps up, rises another six feet, and turns three somersaults. 

Nightwing's got his head tipped back, tongue flicking the corner of his mouth. His lips are swollen. "So you can fly." 

"Yeah, I can _fly_." In the future, Kon decides, everyone is crazy. It'd be sad if wasn't so annoying. "Now can you --" He dips down and lands on his toes, waving his hand vaguely. "Call Robin on whatever mega-secret high-tech you're using these days?" 

Nightwing actually looks surprised. For about an _instant_ , that is, before he sneers. "What, you don't like me?" 

"What? No! No, of course I like you --" Kon bounces on his toes and scrubs his hand through his hair. Batpeople confuse the hell out of him, but Nightwing has to be the worst. Pulling knives, tongue-kissing, and now he's _pouting_? "It's just -- dude. I need Robin. Trust me." 

"So call him." Nightwing turns away, hands on the lip of the roof, and adds, over his shoulder, "You need him so bad, you find him." 

"Right, um --" Kon shakes his head. Nightwing's back is curved, just slightly, like he's leaning out over the city. His hair -- Kon clenches his hands against the sense-memory of that silky-damp hair against his palms. "How?" 

Nightwing glances back at him again. He starts to smile at Kon. Like a pre-smile, flickering around his mouth, never quite gathering steam. The line of his back twists like a cord, like a goddamned spinning _arrow_ , pointing the way to his ass. 

Painfully, slowly, Kon drags his eyes back upward. 

"Come back with me," Nightwing says, his voice going rougher again, like it was when they were kissing. "We'll figure something out, Super-Fake." 

* 

Nightwing promises to test him, see what he's really made of. 

"Kryptonian and human DNA?" Kon jokes weakly. The guy just shakes his head. 

Kon's not too worried. He's been training with the Guardian, he's been fighting with Robin, he'll be okay. He can totally hold his own. 

Just...later. Morning or afternoon, sometime later. As he waits for Nightwing to open about forty-seven _gazillion_ locks, Kon rests his head against the wall and lets his eyes close. 

No tests. Right now, he needs a shower, though Nightwing's place is bare enough to make him wonder if there's even a bathroom. 

There's a joke to be made there, something about guano, but Kon's too fuzzy-headed to work it through. 

"Shower?" he asks once Nightwing's done relocking everything. Shouldn't he have JLA-level security? Kon would ask, but he's running on fumes now. It took more than he had to ask about the shower. 

Except this place is totally empty and kind of spooky. Spookier even than the Cave, which at least has stuff in it. 

Nightwing's eyeing him again. It's not electric, not steely, it's interested. Even through the mask. And it wakes Kon right the hell back up. 

"You _live_ here?" he asks. Still getting his bearings, swallowing against the prickles breaking out over his chest. 

"Safe house," Nightwing says, hands on Kon's waist. 

"Oh." And that's it, the only sound, because he tilts into Nightwing, touching the silky spread of the costume, mouthing the tendon in his neck. His hand curves around Nightwing's ass and squeezes the hard muscle. 

"You doing this because you want to?" Nightwing's mouth is hot and slippery over Kon's throat. "Or because you think you have to?" 

Kon's head thumps the wall as it falls back. "Do you care?" 

Nightwing purses his lips and squints at him. "Not really, no." 

Nightwing growls and twists around, backing up against the wall as he pushes at Kon's shoulder. He _refuses_ to accept the TK, but that's...yeah. Kon's on his knees now, Nightwing's fist in the back of his hair, and he doesn't have to think. 

It's like flying. Maybe not as fun, but. Getting there. Simple to jump and fly, just as simple to yank down Nightwing's tights and go with the push on his shoulder. 

Nightwing only gasps when Kon uses the TK to pull the jock down. Kon blinks up at him, but the sneer's back on Nightwing's face as he snaps his hips forward. Kon steadies one hand over Nightwing's scarred hip, thumb in the hollow, and holds on, wrapping his other hand around the base and --. 

"Jeez, _dude_ \--" He looks up again, the cock slapping his cheek. "One second, all right?" 

"Now," Nightwing says, low and hoarse. His face tightens, puckering the mask, and his hair stabs downward. That sizzle wracking down Kon's spine is definitely _not_ professional. Nightwing works his thumb into the corner of Kon's mouth and tugs it open wider. " _Now_. Unless you don't think you can take --" 

It's a dare, in the same family as Bart challenging him to a race. Kon swallows once, jacking Nightwing's dick, before going all the way down. 

There's no aura that could blanket him from this. Not from what he _wants_. Nightwing's holding open his mouth and gurgling and Kon keeps swallowing, keeps swirling his tongue, and feels every twitch and thrum of pulse. Tastes it, too, letting himself slobber until his chin is wet and anyone human would have passed out, and when Nightwing pulls his hair again, it's not a sign to back off. 

It's an announcement, the guy's face screwed-up and beet-red as he slaps Kon's hand away and grabs his balls. _Fucks_ forward, like he's got more than a mouth around him and he's diving in. Kon tilts back, spine gone fully electric. Nightwing grunts, pulls, and _spatters_ all over Kon's face. 

Hot and dripping, and Kon really shouldn't be thinking of Robin jumping off a building right now, not with his big brother's come on his cheek and filling his mouth, but -- flight. Yes. He had a thread and he followed it. 

He lets himself slump forward, catching his breath. Nightwing kicks him in the shoulder as he pulls up his tights. "Told you you couldn't take it." 

"Shut up." Kon looks up and scrubs the come out of his eyes. He glares up at Nightwing. "Ass." 

"Yah-huh," Nightwing says and ruffles his hair. "Shower's that way. I'll see you in the morning." 

"But --" He bites off the whine. He's fucking hard in these stupid jeans and the asshole's just going to leave? 

The blade's back in Nightwing's boot. Kon's got a bad feeling about that. 

So even though it's the first real mattress he's seen in a week, Kon spends an uncomfortable night on it. There's no hot water in the crappy camp shower and he has to jerk off twice just to relax enough to sleep and he keeps waking up anyway. Whine, whine. He rolls onto his stomach, pulling the pillow over his head. 

At least there were other people back in the squat. He's alone here and Nightwing's a _jackass_ with a knife and Gotham's really loud at night. Way louder than Metropolis. 

Nightwing better have Rob in tow when he shows up again. 

* 

No such luck, bad or otherwise. Nightwing's alone, save for a tray of take-out coffee, when he bangs into the loft the next morning. 

He gives Kon less than half an hour before the tests start up. 

Kon performs the full gamut of TK tricks that he and Rex worked up, everything from balancing the couch on his thumb to unlocking the door from across the room. He has a ball with it; he hasn't done this show since Hawaii. 

Nightwing just crosses his arms and gives him more to do. 

"Fly over there," Nightwing says. "Crunch this. Break that." 

It's like being back in school, only instead of Mrs. Snibbley's giant drooping bosoms, Kon's watching a shirtless Nightwing sweating in the bright sunlight. Bats really do wear their masks _all the time_ ; Nightwing's just wearing loose pants, no shoes or socks, his feet squeaking on the mats, but the mask is firmly in place. 

"Heads up, Superskank --" Nightwing tosses something underhand. 

Kon drops the bottle of Gatorade he was guzzling and lets the aura do the catching. 

" _Fuck_ \--" He didn't mean to curse, but -- "Fuck is that? Ow!" His knees wobble and he retches, the aura shrinking back to just over his skin and _crawling_ over it. His guts twist and he spits out Gatorade and coffee, mixed disgustingly together. From the floor, he tries to see Nightwing, finds him standing right over him. 

_Laughing_ at him. 

"That was Kryptonite, wasn't it?" Wiping his mouth, Kon rolls to the other side and shoots out the TK just enough to hook Nightwing's ankle and topple him. Nightwing lands with a satisfying yelp of surprise. "You _asshole_." 

"Tests," Nightwing says, rolling on top of Kon, pushing his shoulders down to the mat. "You said to throw anything at you." 

"Not **K**!" 

Nightwing presses his forearm against Kon's windpipe. "You have any idea what kind of bullshit the Bat put me through?" 

Kon wheezes. He _wants_ to say, "I'm getting a pretty good idea" but that would take oxygen. Instead, he flips Nightwing back and lands back on top. Coughs, then manages, "I'm not fucking _Robin_. I'm Superboy." 

Nightwing cocks his head. "You're not fucking Robin? Why not? He's _pretty_. Kind of little, sure, but --" 

"Ew, no --" Kon sits back on his knees. He rubs both hands over his face and coughs again but the mental images are still there. Rob. And sex. "No." 

"Feisty, too," Nightwing says silkily, walking his fingers up Kon's shin. His hand slides around the hollow behind the knee and he squeezes. "Fights dirty." 

"I'm not listening to you." Kon shuts his eyes and attempts to resists the urge to fling Nightwing into the wall. 

"For a little guy, he moves _fast_." 

"Shut up." This is worse than green K. Kon never thought anything could be. "When he hears about this, he is _so_ going to kill you." 

Nightwing knocks him back and Kon rolls with it, bringing Nightwing with him. "Yeah? You think?" 

"I _know_ ," Kon grits out and pushes up from the mat, into the air. He drags Nightwing with him, tipping him upside down. 

"You're kinda touchy, you know that?" Nightwing crosses his arms as he hangs there, like he could do this all day. "I hit a sore spot, huh? Robin-baby turn you down?" 

Kon gives him a shake and lets him drop. Nightwing just tucks into a somersault and lands solidly. 

Kon molds himself against the ceiling. "Dude. Ass. He's my best friend --" 

"He's my best friend," Nightwing sing-songs. "Do you have sleepovers and braid his hair and cuddle him at night?" 

"Shut up! Jesus, man, I --" 

"Oh, I _know_!" Nightwing pushes himself to his feet and strolls over to the windowsill. He grins up at Kon. "Late at night, and you really hope he doesn't notice little Superchubby poking into his back. Am I right?" He drops his mouth open and sounds like a Down's kid. "'Aw, jeez, sorry, that's just the tactile TK...'" 

Kon drops himself off the ceiling, pulling in the aura so he hits with a good, hard, _painful_ thud. His teeth rattle in his head. 

It doesn't help. 

Nightwing kicks his shoulder. "What's wrong?" 

Kon opens one eye. "Are we done here?" 

Nightwing drops down to a crouch and smiles widely, _insincerely_ , as a cat. "We're just getting started. Now, little clone, you're going to tell Unca Nightwing _all_ about your bestest bud Robin." 

"No more K?" Kon tries not to cross his arms or look defensive. He's failing pretty much perfectly. 

"Not unless you're naughty." Nightwing slings his arm around Kon's shoulders and pulls him in. It's a creepy touch but Kon lets it happen. He can't pretend it doesn't feel good. 

Especially when Nightwing rubs the back of his neck with just his thumb, hard enough to feel. Kon drops his head forward and starts to talk. 

Once he gets going, he can't really stop. There's the whole Poison Ivy adventure to cover, and the Super-Cycle, and, _man_ , the saga of Secret. Then there's Cissie going off the deep end, and then the age-switch takes _forever_ to explain, and as long as he's talking, Nightwing isn't. 

But, eventually, Kon runs out of words and memories. He's lying in Nightwing's lap and maybe that should feel weird, but it doesn't. He rubs his jaw and says, "So then I pushed Rob out of the way and ended up here." He grins up, a little embarrassed. "It's like years in the future. Crazy, huh?" 

"Heard crazier," Nightwing says. "Hell, I've _been_ crazier." 

"Oh. Still -- I mean, you're gonna help me, right?" 

"Me?" Nightwing shrugs and traces his finger around Kon's lips. "Why?" 

"Yeah, _you_. 'cause you're _Nightwing_ \--" Kon stops when Nightwing presses two fingers over his lips. Mmm, calluses. He hooks them and tugs open Kon's mouth. 

"Nice," Nightwing murmurs. Kon sucks on his fingertips, starting to get into it, before he remembers that there are more important things right now. 

He nips down on Nightwing's knuckles, then sits up. "Can you do me one favor, though?" 

"Just one?" 

Kon smirks at him. "Just -- can you not tell Batman I'm here? Guy really doesn't like me." 

Nightwing's got this sick little grin on his face as he says, "Join the fucking club." 

"Dude, I'm sorry?" Kon hugs his knees to his chest as he tries to think of something else to say. It's the future, and Nightwing doesn't like Batman, and it's all bizarre. Kon doesn't even know if Robin's still...Robin. Maybe he's Batman now? 

No, Nightwing would get to be Batman first. Line of succession, that kind of thing, like how Cassie'll be Wonder Woman and he'll be Superboy. 

Maybe _Cass_ is Batman; that'd be cool. So cool! And not just because he'd be allowed in Gotham again. Probably. But Nightwing's using "he" and "him", so, no. 

Time-travel makes Kon's head hurt. He rubs his eyes and tries to relax. 

"He won't find out," Nightwing says. His voice makes it sound like he's promising himself, too. "Now, about your little thing for Robin --" 

Kon slaps him. "He's my best friend." 

"But you don't know his name." 

"I _do_! Okay, not his _real_ name, like his human name?" Kon floats up so quickly he gets a headrush. "But his name's Rob and --" 

Nightwing just smirks at him. "And?" When Kon doesn't answer, he adds, "His name's not Rob, for one thing." 

"I _know_ that, all right?" Kon covers his face with his hands and tries to do that deep breathing. 

"His name's Tim," Nightwing says slowly. "Tim. Timmy. Timothy." 

"Shut up, liar." No hero, let alone any _Bat_ , would tell you straight out like that. Kon pushes him away. "Just -- would you call him? Please?" 

"What if he doesn't want to help?" 

Damn. Kon hasn't let himself think that. He and Rob fight sometimes -- okay, _a lot_ \-- but that's just what they do. It doesn't mean anything. 

Besides, even if they were fighting last week in Kon's time, it's years and years later for _this_ time. 

Headache. 

Kon rubs his temples and swallows. "He does." 

"Because you're his best friend?" Nightwing says, then claps his hand over his mouth. "No, he's _your_ best friend. Doesn't necessarily work the other way around, does it?" 

"Doesn't matter." Kon drops back down and shakes his head. "He helps lots of people who aren't, aren't --" 

"You?" 

"Yeah. Whatever." 

"You don't make a very convincing argument," Nightwing says, standing up and offering Kon his hand. Kon can stand by himself, thanks anyway, and he does so. Nightwing takes a huge step back. "What, are you _mad_ at me?" 

"No," Kon mutters. "Maybe." 

He jostles Kon, leading with his shoulder, and says, "C'mon, I'll let you call in the order for Chinese." 

He orders way too much food. They still manage to polish it all off. Kon's got the tests as an excuse for his hunger, but he doesn't know what's up with Nightwing. There's no _room_ on him for the amount of food he can put away. He's all lean muscle, scars like lace over his skin, and, yeah, Kon's checking him out. Nightwing might be an obnoxious asshole, but he's _hot_. And his fingers do things to Kon that make him wheeze. 

Plucking up each empty carton with a tendril of TK, Kon checks the window. Dusk's starting to fall in the lower parts of the sky, like thick cobwebs spinning between the buildings. "Don't you need to patrol?" 

Nightwing rolls his eyes. "Why?" 

"Um." Kon gestures at the window and the cartons go flying. Damn it. "You know. The criminal element, can't let it take an inch, it'll grab a mile, that whole thing?" 

Nightwing rubs his belly and grins when Kon can't help but look. "Nicer inside, though." 

"Dude!" Kon drags himself to his feet and waves his arms at the window. "Gotham needs you! Isn't that how it goes?" 

"Yeah, but if I go out, you'll want to come and you probably won't let me take my knife and it won't be any _fun_." Nightwing hooks one thumb in the waistband of his pants and smiles slowly. "Much more fun in here." 

"But --" Kon says doubtfully. "It's your job." 

"Getting to know you," Nightwing says and hooks the other thumb into his waistband as he stretches, ribs standing out. "Evaluating your made-up story. That totally counts as work." 

Kon's sure the guy is bullshitting. It's just that he looks so good while he's doing it. "So call Robin. He can -- evaluate. Whatever." 

Nightwing tilts his head against the back of the couch. "You don't trust me?" 

It's easier not to lie. "Not really." 

"But you do like me." Nightwing rolls his hips and grins when Kon's eyes follow the motion. 

"So?" 

"As much as you like Robin?" 

The guy's really obsessed with Robin. It would make sense -- big brother and all -- except the way he _talks_ about Robin. That's not brotherly, even when Kon tries to account for Bat-family craziness. 

"You're thinking it over," Nightwing says, sliding to his feet and pressing up against Kon. "That's good." His dick pokes half-hard against Kon's leg as he licks up the side of Kon's neck. "I'm _way_ better than he is." 

"Would you _shut up_ about Rob?" Kon shoves Nightwing away. Laughing, Nightwing mimes zipping his lip and tossing the key. Kon pushes him again, Nightwing drops his shoulder, and they're rolling on the floor, wrestling. 

It's not like Kon's ever wrestled before, with teammate _or_ villain. There's a lot more groping, for one thing, plus Nightwing's biting his neck and grinding their dicks together. 

"Are we gonna --" Kon sucks on the air for a second, his mouth hollow and dry. Any question he asks is just going to get him another obnoxious wisecrack. "Let's just _screw_ , man." 

"Fuck, yes. You're dumb, but you _do_ catch on eventually, don't you?" 

Nightwing yanks down Kon's jeans and rolls them over again. He drags his teeth down Kon's belly, twists his nipples until the aura shrivels and gives up. It's almost as confusing as time-travel -- Kon knows that Nightwing's crazy. Around the bend, off the deep end, muy loco. But the guy also really, truly _knows_ what he's doing. He's grunting in this high register as he licks Kon's balls, and for a couple minutes, Kon can let go. Just let go and enjoy, brace his feet on the mat and push up his hips. 

Nightwing's got his face, mask and all, between Kon's legs, fingers gripping his ass. The thought of the mask shouldn't make him buck and leak pre-come like it is, but -- it _does_. For lots of reasons, because Kon's life is just this weird and Nightwing's mouth is just that wide and welcoming. 

"God --" Kon rolls his head back and forth, groaning when Nightwing's hands slide around to his inner thighs and push him open. He's far enough gone, horny as _hell_ , that when Nightwing starts licking down behind his balls, stabbing his tongue into Kon's crack, all Kon can do is lift his hips up and dig his toes into Nightwing's shoulders. 

This is Gotham, and the future, and he'd turned tricks for almost a week. No point in freaking out when some hot crazy superhero wants to eat out his ass. Especially not when that crazy bastard is so good at it, working his tongue and mouth so it feels like Kon's just _opening_ up. Wider and deeper, pushing against Nightwing's face, like flowers for the sun. He can hear himself groaning, hear the squeak of sweaty skin on the mat, but all he can do is push and open and drown in the red, soaked _heat_ of it. 

He squeals when Nightwing works his finger inside, pounds his fists pointlessly when the asshole _laughs_ at him and tells him to keep begging. Then he's just breathing out sound as Nightwing fingerfucks him and pushes his mouth down the length of Kon's dick. His hips don't know what to do. They snap back and forth against the pressure of the finger and the slick heat of suction. He's so close to coming that he can _see_ it. Feel the white blaze prickling along the edges of his body, drawing in tighter and tighter, and there's more pressure, deeper, two fingers maybe, and teeth in his foreskin. He shouts, and dives upward, coming with half his spine and his whole damn _mind_ into Nightwing's mouth. 

"Slut," Nightwing says almost fondly, working his fingers deeper even as he crawls up the length of Kon's body. His breath smells like come and sweat and when he kisses Kon, he crosses his fingers deep inside and Kon screams into his mouth. " _Good_ boy." 

"Jesus." Kon can't open his eyes. He can barely feel his legs. His throat hurts from shouting and he groans as Nightwing tugs Kon's right leg around his waist. "Jesus, man, that --" 

"Shut up." Nightwing nips at Kon's chin and thrusts against him. Somewhere, he lost the pants -- not the mask, though, never the mask. It slides, cool and soft, against Kon's cheek. 

"You shut up," Kon says stubbornly and wiggles a little against Nightwing's crotch. There's no way in _hell_ he's getting hard again, but he's slack and silly, his mind totally blown. Nightwing's pressing down his shoulder, grinning like a wolf at him. "Jackass." 

"Mm," Nightwing says, sitting back on his heels and stroking Kon's thighs. The muscles there are jackrabbiting with twitches. Kon sighs happily. "You're kind of easy. Anyone ever tell you that?" 

Kon reaches down, blindly, seeking with fingers and TK some part of Nightwing to touch. "Yeah, your mom." 

Nightwing's smile thins down to the edge of a knife as he pushes forward. Jesus, with his dick _and_ the full strength of that long, beautiful body. Kon's eyes roll back. The width and pressure of his fingers was _nothing_ compared to the blunt, overwhelming pressure of Nightwing's dick. He doesn't let up, rolling his hips and going in deeper and deeper until Kon's got his leg over Nightwing's sweaty shoulder. No room in his body for thought or air, just -- heat. Tension. 

He's squeaking with each thrust. Nightwing's grunting, miles above him, rocking his hips and biting his lower lip until Kon shouts again. 

" _Good_ , motherfucker --" Nightwing tightens his grip on Kon's calves and thrusts deeper, scraping something that blazes behind Kon's retinas, and he keeps fucking, panting, his mouth all the way open. Kon focuses on that, just his mouth, and takes it, pushing back in a ragged motion that makes Nightwing groan out hot little breaths. The sound is deep, almost as deep as his cock, like Kon's dragging the noise out of him, so he does it again and again, until Nightwing hunches forward. His nails rake up Kon's shins and he shoves in one last time and there's tension and then --. "Oh, _fuck_ , that's good --" 

Kon _is_ hard again, wincing as he grazes his fingertips over his dick and Nightwing pulls out. The rhythm of his breathing's quick and shallow, and he grins with half his mouth, watching Kon jerk himself off. 

"Whore," Nightwing mutters softly, almost admiringly. Kon's so far gone, that just makes him shudder and pull harder. "Fuck, kid, that --" Kon pushes himself up on one elbow and hooks his leg around Nightwing's, pulling him in until they're face to face. He wraps a patch of aura around Nightwing's dick and tugs lightly in time with his own hand. "Fucking _hell_." 

"Yeah --" Kon arches back, pulling out a bright, _painful_ orgasm, and rolls against Nightwing. "Jeez." 

* 

Nightwing lays out rule after rule if Kon's going to stay with him. Don't go out alone, don't buy a newspaper, don't fly, don't use your credit cards... 

"I watch Oprah, you know," Kon says. 

Nightwing crumples his beer can. "What?" 

"This is, like. One of those abusive relationships." Grinning, Kon reaches for the last chunk of Entemann's cinnamon ring and pops it into his mouth. Around it, he adds, "You're controlling me, man." 

"Yeah," Nightwing replies and cracks open another can. "How's it go? My house, my rules?" 

"Do I have to call you Dad?" 

"Huh." A smile spreads slow as a glacier across Nightwing's face. "We could do that." 

"Eww, _dude_. No." 

"Think about it, baby." Nightwing sets his beer down on top of the TV and bends over, his knife flashing in his hand. 

"What're you doing?" Kon tries to look over Nightwing's shoulder, but he can't quite believe his eyes. "You're cutting the cable! Stop that!" 

It's too late. Even with the TK looped around Nightwing's right arm, yanking hard, there's no point. The cable's cut, the twisty wires inside neatly snapped. 

"Oprah reminded me." Nightwing springs to his feet and shakes out his hair. "No cable, either." 

Kon crosses his arms. "This sucks." 

"Yeah," Nightwing says, cuffing Kon's head as he backtracks to retrieve his beer. When he drops back down to the couch, Kon joins him. "I know. It's just --" 

"Safer this way," Kon mutters. It's all about time-travel paradoxes, complicated stuff that just confuses the hell out of him. "I get it." 

"Good boy," Nightwing says and grabs Kon's arm, hauls him over his lap. "Now sit still." 

Kon wiggles until Nightwing grunts. "Still, or...?" 

"Dumbass." Nightwing tightens his arms around Kon's chest, pinches his nipple and bites the back of his neck. "Do that again." 

* 

They sleep in the next day, order Indian rather than Chinese for dinner, but otherwise, it's just the same as the day before. Nightwing distracts Kon after dinner with a handjob, so it's fully dark out when Kon remembers about patrol. 

" _Fine_. I'll patrol, just to shut you up." Nightwing tugs up his tights, pats his boot, then wheels on Kon. "The fuck's my knife?" 

Kon finishes pulling on the t-shirt Nightwing lent him and grins. "I hid it. You ready?" 

"What, you _do_ have X-ray vision?" Nightwing's patting his boot down, like he doesn't believe it's gone. 

"Just know you." Kon nudges at Nightwing's shoulder with his knee. "We going or what?" 

Straightening up, Nightwing bares his teeth, like a parody of a smile performed by an alien. "Give it to me." 

"Or what? You'll dose with me K again?" 

"To start with." 

Kon shoulders past him, knocking Nightwing into the wall. "You want to _talk_ about it all night or do you want to get out there?" 

Calling Nightwing's bluff works -- this time, anyway. 

Kon's working theory is that the knife is possessed. Without it, Nightwing can't be half so crazy. It makes total sense. Like Achtung's Razor, something he'd heard about from Rob, where the simplest explanation had to be the right one. 

* 

Kon knows he's not supposed to ask about the future. But he can't help himself sometimes. "Is my Rob even still Robin?" 

" _Your_ Robin?" Nightwing's tongue flashes in the corner of his mouth. "How sweet. You _do_ love him." 

"Fuck off." 

He doesn't know why he bothers. 

* 

Back in his own time, Kon would have said he preferred the big stuff. He helped take down _Engine City_ ; he's built for that kind of important thing. It's about the boss battles at the end of a level, not all the nimbly little maneuvers it takes to _find_ the boss. 

So it's sort of surprising, really, to find that he likes patrol. It's tiny in scale, worked out block by block, wrestling down muggers and purse-snatchers, kicking dealers in the chin, helping little ladies old and young across the street. 

" _Damn_ ," Nightwing says. "Check you out, Mr. Civic Virtue." 

Kon finishes picking up all the spilled produce from the botched bodega hold-up, then piles it up higher than it was before. The shop-owner gives him a bunch of plantains in thanks. 

The fruit's sweet, almost creamy, in his mouth. Grinning, Kon offers one to Nightwing, but the jackass just shoves it back. He's got his boot on the neck of the stick-up artist. Kon checks the guy for injury as subtly as he can. He's out, but seems okay otherwise. 

"You are _such_ a suck-up," Nightwing says. 

"Just doing my job." 

"Save it for the papers." Nightwing punches him in the ribs. "C'mon. Got a line on a kiddie porn ring." 

They leave the gunslinger for the cops and take the roofs several blocks southwest. 

The ring turns out to be a skeletal loser named Daoud, who trips over the computer cables when they come in off the fire escape, through the window. Kon holds him back while Nightwing searches the hard drives. 

"Jackpot, you sick fuck." Nightwing's face is twisted up in an expression like joy, mixed with disgust and exhilaration, as he smashes all four computers, their monitors, the scanner, even Daoud's rickety chair for good measure. Waving one of the chair's arms like a billy club, he brings it down across Daoud's torso. There's a wet, cracking sound as it connects; the guy screams and sags against Kon. 

Kon has to look away as Nightwing hits Daoud again and Daoud crumples to his knees. Nightwing spins, kicks him twice in the crotch, yells at him to stand up. Shaking, Daoud does so, shielding his face. 

Nightwing grabs his balls and twists. He's grinning like a maniac. "You start this shit again, and next time I'm taking these. Hear me?" 

"Yeah, yeah," Daoud gasps. "Please, sorry --" 

Nightwing knees him in the stomach and there's that _wet_ thick noise again as Daoud stumbles against the wall. Glass from the monitors tinkles on the floor. 

"Let him go --" Kon says. 

Whirling on him, Nightwing punches Kon in the jaw. 

"Jesus, what --?" Kon's the one stumbling now, out of surprise more than pain. 

"We're done here." Nightwing kicks Daoud a couple more times before striding to the window. One leg over the sill, he spares one mean, twisted-mouth glance at Kon. "You coming?" 

Kon rubs his jaw. "Yeah." 

Crazy _bastard_. Nightwing doesn't say anything on the way home. His jaw's set like rock, his shoulders drawn up around his ears, his hands fisted. Kon knows better not to speak. 

He lasts eleven blocks before he can't help it. On the top of an old movie theater, Kon tries to touch Nightwing's shoulder. "Man, what _was_ that?" 

Nightwing shoots a long line, almost too long, diagonally across the street and swings away. His body slides through the air like a jackknife, almost skimming the tops of the street-lamps before rising. 

Kon follows, mimicking the drop and rise of a grapple-flight, but Nightwing's flying to the next water tower before Kon lands. "Pissy, pissy," Kon mutters and flies faster. 

Fast as he can and still look human, but even so, Nightwing's waiting for him on the roof of the safe-house. He's got his arms crossed and his chin down; Kon _knows_ he's about to get bitched out. 

And here Kon had been thinking he _missed_ Robin. Not right now; Nightwing's mean and big, but nobody bitches like Rob. 

"I didn't _do_ anything --" Kon holds up his hands. 

Nightwing just looks at him. The man needs a vacation, some time in the sun, a Mai Tai or ten. 

"Dude," Kon adds. 

Nightwing's hair is wet with sweat, carved into little jagged locks. The sweat flies off, spangling the clouds behind him, as he shakes his head. "I don't need a fucking _sidekick_." 

Kon steps back. "I'm not --" 

" _Fuck_." Nightwing springs forward, shoulder driving into Kon's chest. Kon goes with the motion, falling back. "You don't. _Ever_. Tell me what to fucking _do_." 

"Hey, hey." Kon forces his body to relax; the roofing paper grinds into the back of his neck and his hands. "Wouldn't dream of it." 

Just over Nightwing's shoulder, there's a patch of clear sky. It's clean, smooth as tile and dark as granite, snagged in Gotham's filthy clouds. 

He could just... _fly_. Fly up there, keep on going. To hell with embarrassing himself in front of Clark -- that's par for the course _anyway_ and if it means he can escape psycho Robins and Gotham's stink and kiddie-porn kings wheezing out their apologies through punctured lungs -- then it would be worth it. 

Nightwing rises up a little, pulling back his arm. He punches Kon in the face. Again, then three-four-five more times. Kon lets him, takes the pummeling, only stops him when he's sure the next blow will shatter Nightwing's knuckles. 

Kon catches Nightwing's wrist and pushes him back. "Feel better?" 

His own face aches a little, but Nightwing's hunched over and gasping, cradling his fist. 

"Fuck off." Nightwing shakes out his hand; the first two fingers are swollen, dangling uselessly. "Metahuman _asshole_." 

Kon sits up, keeping a safe distance between them. "You like my asshole." 

"Fucker." 

"That, too." 

Nightwing exhales noisily. "Rule number one --" 

"Don't tell you what to do?" Kon squints, but he can't see the clear patch of sky any more. That's okay; he can't exactly leave, not now. Nightwing might not want a sidekick, but he really does need, like, a guard. "I can go with that." 

Standing, he offers Nightwing his hand. Without looking at him, Nightwing takes it, then jostles him with his hip. "Don't fucking _need_ this shit," he mutters sulkily. 

Kon slings his arm around Nightwing's shoulders. "C'mon, man. All Robins love Superm--. Supertypes." 

"Funny," Nightwing says, tripping Kon, beating him to the door. "Since I'm not Robin and you're not Superman." 

"Details!" Kon shouts after him. "Mere details, my man." 

Nightwing's not going to shake him _that_ easily. 

* 

Kon wants to go home. He's tried being patient. Patient _sucks_. 

One morning, when Nightwing's hunched over the huge mixing bowl he uses for cereal, Kon throws the phone at him. 

Milk splashes all over the floor. Nightwing slides instantly into a fighting stance. "What the fuck?" 

"Call Robin," Kon says. "Call him now." 

The stance passes from fighting-mad to relaxed-and-cocky. Nightwing grins, wide and insincere. "Aww. You homesick, baby?" 

There's no right answer to that question. If Kon says yes, then Nightwing's feelings get hurt. If he says no, then why should he bother contacting Robin? Kon chews the inside of his lip. No right answer, and right now, he can't even decide if there's a _true_ answer, either. He _is_ homesick, but -- he shouldn't admit that. 

He shrugs. "Why not call him? I'm telling you, I'm about _this_ far from sending up the Batsignal." 

"You do that." Nightwing turns back to what's left of his cereal. "Let me know how it turns out." 

Kon shifts his weight from foot to foot. Nightwing's curled over his bowl again, tension obvious across his shoulders and down his back. There's something going on that's about more than just Robin, just Kon. 

"Look, man," Kon tries. "So what if he's being a dick --" 

"Who?" 

"Duh. Batman. He's _always_ a dick, that's like what he _is_. Can't you just swallow it and --" 

Nightwing looks over his shoulder. "I spit." 

Kon tilts his head. "You do not." 

"Maybe not with _you_." Nightwing's grin is sideways, tucked against his shoulder. "'cause you're _super_." 

This conversation's somehow gotten turned around and upside down. Kon lifts his chin and narrows his eyes. "Call, man. I dare you." 

Nightwing's grin fades in half a second. "Don't." 

"Dare. You." 

"You _want_ some Kryptonite for breakfast?" Nightwing's voice is low and mean. 

Kon rolls his shoulders. "You threatening me?" 

"You daring me?" 

They stare at each other for a long time. Kon lets himself float about an inch off the floor, just to take the weight off his feet; he's never been any good at staying still. Nightwing's twisted around in his chair like some kind of _yogi_ , absolutely motionless. It's more than a little eerie. 

Outside, a car's brakes squeal just before it crunches into a signpost. They keep staring. Clouds pass over the sun and Nightwing's face gets dark in the shadows, but they keep staring. The tinkling song of an ice-cream truck filters up through the open windows. 

Kon can't take it any longer. Something _big_ is keeping Nightwing here, making him keep and protect Kon in his crazy, obsessive way, and whatever it is, it's way bigger than Kon. 

"You want some?" he asks when he's halfway out the window. "Dip cone? Maybe a big phallic popsicle?" 

"Dish of Neapolitan." Nightwing tosses a five towards him and Kon catches it with the TK. "Double -- no, triple scoop." 

"You sure it's okay if I go out by myself, big guy? I might skin my knee." 

Nightwing just flips him off. 

Kon takes that as a yes. 

* 

"New rule," Kon says the next night when they're getting ready to go out. "Three good deeds before you beat somebody down." 

Nightwing scowls at that, but the rule works for a couple nights. Kon keeps him focused on the so-called little stuff and it's _good_. They stop three rapes, help a bent-over old man find his dog, clean the needles and old rubbers out of a little park, distribute warm clothes to some street kids. 

He's not sure where Nightwing gets his intel. The ways of the Bats are dark and mysterious; they really like it that way. Most nights, Nightwing doesn't seem to have any particular objective. He heads out in any direction, dropping down on muggers and car thieves as they present themselves. 

Other times, though, he's got a clear destination -- the kiddie porn traders, dealers around middle schools, that kind of thing. When Kon asks, he just not-smiles and taps his nose. 

* 

It's a few nights later when Nightwing elbows Kon aside as they're heading out. 

"Listen, Superslut --" 

"Yeah, Boy Psycho?" 

Nightwing smirks at him and blocks the door. "We're doing this patrol my way." 

"Huh." Kon holds Nightwing at arm's length, pinning him with the TK, and pretends to consider it. "Your way's pretty bloody." 

"Gets the job done." 

"Sure, if the job's _maiming_." 

Nightwing gives him that crazy-loco grin. My, what sharp teeth you have. "Got a better idea?" 

"Protect the innocent?" Kon offers and eases up the TK. Just a little; Nightwing doesn't stumble, only adjusts his stance. "Punish the evildoers? Oh, wait, I know! Make this shitty urban wasteland just a little bit safer for the good people?" 

Nightwing rolls his shoulders. "And that's not my way how?" 

Kon pulls in the TK and grins. "Your way's _insane_ , dude. You gotta know that." 

"Nope," Nightwing says, pushing open the door. "Never heard that before." 

They argue all the way across town, chasing each other from roof to roof, sidewalk to alley. It's a slow night, not much going on besides a carjacking and the usual idiot muggers. 

* 

So something big is going down. Has gone down. Whatever it is, Nightwing's keeping it from Kon. It has to be big, though, to account for the insanely short leash Nightwing has on him. 

Before they setting out for the night, Nightwing crouches by the window, checking de-cel lines and strapping on the binoculars. Kon goes low and fast, leading with his shoulder, and knocks Nightwing back against the wall. 

"What's the worst that could happen?" Kon pulls Nightwing to his feet. "Here, I mean. In the future." 

Nightwing's face is twisted up; it looks like he's snarling, but no sound is coming out. After he pats down his hair and straightens his jersey, he says, "Well, Christ. Let's see. Maybe you're dead and all the heroes are gone and nobody knows what the fuck is going on. How's that sound?" 

Kon swallows. "Pretty bad. Shitty." 

Nightwing gives him one of those thin smiles. "Right. So shut the fuck up and let's go to work." 

_Dead_? No way. Of course, Nightwing's bullshitting him. He answered the question literally, just to get Kon to shut up. But as they swoop through the night, rescue two kids and their kitten from a crackhouse fire, stop three assaults and save a lost old man, he can't stop thinking about the shittiness that might be this time. 

His shirt is torn over the shoulder, singed fairly thoroughly, and Nightwing's not in much better shape, when they slide in the window. 

"I'm not dead," Kon tells him. "So what's up?" 

It feels like half an eon as he watches Nightwing slowly unbuckle his boots, dump his gear, pull off his jersey. Finally, hair dishevelled, soot streaking his face and neck, Nightwing sits down on the windowsill. "What if you were dead, though? How would you --" He steeples his fingers under his chin and adds what Kon thinks is supposed to be a Nazi-accent. "How vould that make you feel?" 

Kon shakes his head. "But I'm not." 

"But if you _vere_ , my boy..." 

"I'm not, though." 

Nightwing scrubs his fist through his hair. "You could wake up in your own coffin and have to dig yourself out and stumble around like a fucking zombie --" 

"Yeah, asshole, whatever." Kon knocks him hard, shoving Nightwing over to make room on the sill. "I saw that episode of Wendy, too." 

The stupid accent is back. "Und so I vonder und ask ze questions." 

"What _is_ it with all the questions?" Kon asks. Nightwing's much more of a barking-orders guy. "Is this philosophy class? 'cause I didn't do the reading." 

Nightwing leans back through the open window until his back is arched, the back of his head resting on the fire-escape. His pelvis stands out like the broken edge of pottery. "It'd suck," he says. "That's all I'm saying." 

Kon lies back next to him. The window isn't that wide, so they're smushed up together. "Well, duh. It'd totally suck." 

"Yeah." 

"But I'm _not_ ," Kon reminds him. Maybe Nightwing took a blow to the head that Kon missed tonight. 

Nightwing elbows him in the ribs, sharp and hard. "No, you're a living, breathing pain in my ass." 

Kon grins at him. "Good answer." 

* 

As that night's patrol winds down, Kon thinks that he ought to feel guilty about being relieved nothing's twigged Nightwing over into Nutty Town. 

He's not guilty, though. His energy's going to tagging Nightwing down this crooked sidestreet, making him really _work_ the grapple. 

He crouches, half-hidden behind a grimy turret, waiting for Nightwing to catch up. 

Ten stories below, across the street, a concert or something is letting out of a big old theater. The figures swarming down the marble steps are foreshortened, the round crowns of their heads overtopping their stick legs and tiny little feet. 

The weird thing is, most of the crowd, men and women and kids, are dressed alike -- cobalt blue and black tops, red pants. They look like mini-Kons, like Black Zero's Superboy-pods. 

Like that cult that sprang up after Clark died, before it split into rival factions. 

Nightwing lands with a light thump behind him. Without turning around, Kon points across the street. "Dude, check it out. Look at all the little Superpeople!" 

Hand on Kon's neck, Nightwing yanks him back from the edge of the roof. When Kon looks at him, Nightwing's face is twisting strangely. "That's not --" 

"I'm going down!" Kon rises a couple feet to clear the turret, intending to float his way down. It'll _rock_ , he'll land in the middle of the crowd, maybe sign some autographs, do his World Tour schtick --. 

But Nightwing's got him around the waist, hauling him down, away. Startled, Kon twists, tries to fly away, but Nightwing shoves him back. 

"Dude, _what_?" 

"Don't move," Nightwing says. He plants his knee in the middle of Kon's chest and holds his forehead. Kon isn't exactly pinned -- he could get free any time he wanted -- but he goes still, startled and confused. Nightwing's treating him like _he's_ one of their perps. 

"You okay?" Kon reaches up to touch Nightwing's shoulder but Nightwing pushes him away. "Man, what's going on?" 

"Don't go down there." 

"But --" 

"Don't," Nightwing says. That's not his crazy-voice; that's a _Robin_ -voice, completely serious and cold as the grave. "You don't want to go down there." 

"Sure I do --" 

"You really don't." Nightwing straddles Kon's hips, holds his arms down, and _stares_ at him. 

At least, he's _probably_ staring. Hard to tell with the mask. 

"What's going on?" Kon wriggles a little, trying to get Nightwing to adjust his weight, but Nightwing just holds him there. 

"I'm not fooling around --" 

Kon grins. "I am." 

"Shut up, would you?" Okay, _that's_ a little more like the crazy-voice, slightly strangled with frustration. Nightwing sits back on his heels, sliding one fist down to Kon's chest, pressing his fingers like a warning. He's touching right where the S-shield would be. "I --" 

"What?" Kon tries to make himself sound gentle, but confusion's hard to ignore. 

While Nightwing stares down at him, not answering, a klaxon sounds in the distance, there's a screech of bad brakes, three backfiring mufflers, and a snatch of samba music. 

Finally, Nightwing lifts one shoulder and smiles. It's -- that's not the wolf-grin, nowhere near a smirk. More like he's smiling to himself, at some private joke. 

"Got something to tell you," Nightwing says softly. Kon has to strain to hear it. "You're not going to tell anyone." 

"Tell who? Tell them what?" Kon wriggles again and Nightwing pulls himself off, landing in a crouch across from Kon. "Man, you're --" 

Nightwing rubs his jaw, still wearing that small, secret smile. 

Kon tries again. "Nightwing --" 

Nightwing picks at the corner of the black mask and peels it off. Underneath, there's another mask. Smaller, red, shaped like Rob's green one. 

"What the hell's that?" 

Nightwing shrugs. "Memento." 

"Doesn't it get hot?" 

Nightwing pinches the bridge of his nose. "A little," he says and cocks his head. "Okay, Superho. Here you go." His fingers tighten and pull the red mask off. The only thing Kon can thinks is -- _he's got blue eyes. I was right!_

He stops the triumphant grin and catches the celebratory fist-pump when he realizes Nightwing is staring at him. Regarding him, his gaze a little tight, a lot focused. 

Kon bounces twice in his crouch. "Hey," he says. "Sorry about that. Nightwing." 

Nightwing winces at that, then shakes it off. "Call me Jason." 

Kon clamps his hands over his ears. No names, he can't know their names. "Take it back!" 

Night- _Jason_ grabs one of Kon's elbows and jerks his hand down. Kon just gapes. 

You don't learn their names. That's the whole Bat- _thing_. 

"Jay. Sun. Say it with me." 

Rolling his eyes, Kon yanks his arm free. "Jason. Jason-Jason- _Jason_. Happy?" 

Jason runs both his hands through his hair and shrugs. "It's a start." 

"Jason, Jason, Bo-Basin. Banana-Fanna-Fo Face-in." Once Kon gets going, he can't stop. Jason swings an empty fist at his head and Kon dances away. "Fee Fi Mo--Maaa-sun!" 

Holding his head, Jason rocks on his heels, muttering. Kon flies around him, kicking him lightly, ruffling his hair. "Jason? Jay? What do you prefer?" 

He never imagined he'd know Rob's name. This is almost as good, exciting and bizarre. It's like the world's upside-down and sideways. 

It's only when they're back at the safe-house, stripping and heading for the shower, that Kon remembers the Super-worshippers. 

"Hey. _Hey_ \--" He grabs for Night- -- _Jason_ , his name is Jason -- Jason's arm and slips on the wet tile. "You distracted me, didn't you? You _ass_ , I was all over that --" 

Without the mask, Jason's face is a little softer. His eyes are really blue, bright and wide as he looks Kon up and down. Kon would back away, really, but the shower's not that wide and --. 

Jason's _naked_ , streaked with water. Little pink tongue-tip at the corner of his mouth, and Kon has...priorities. 

Jason curls his arm around Kon's neck, works his mouth down Kon's throat. "It worked though, didn't it?" 

"Yeah," Kon admits, bracing one hand on the slippery wall, pressing himself against Jason's body. Wet and _warm_ , muscles sliding against his own, and he's more than slightly lightheaded. He kisses Jason, the skin around his eyes, his eyebrows, everywhere he's seeing for the first time. 

* 

Now that he knows Jason's name, Kon's allowed to move from the safe-house into...another safe-house. 

"I don't really have a place," Jason says. There's no apology or embarrassment in his tone, either, just a statement of fact. For about the millionth time, Kon thinks it would probably be a good thing if the Bats eased off on the facts and started, like, _feeling_. 

So this safe-house is a little better set-up than the first one, with more workout equipment, a bigger bed, several TVs, and Jason's Big Secret Office that Kon's Not Allowed To Enter. 

The few glimpses he's stolen of the office undercut the Big Secretness of it -- as far as Kon can tell, it's just an office with computer monitors and a cop radio, that kind of thing. More weapons, phone wires tangled across the floor. 

"I've been in the _Cave_ , dude," Kon says as Jason locks the office door behind him. "Can't shock me with anything." 

"Once you've seen a robot dinosaur, you've seen it all?" Jason leans against the door, arms folded. 

"Exactly." Kon cranes his neck, wishing like hell he had the X-ray vision, wondering if he could fool Jay into believing he _does_ have it. "Spooky old Robin shrines and all. Hey, I've been in the _Fortress_." 

Jason's eyes narrow at that. "No shit?" 

"No shit." Kon grins. "So let me in." 

"No." 

"C' _mon_ \--" 

Shaking his head, Jason pushes off from the door and heads for the kitchen. 

In retaliation, Kon makes a sign with blue and black markers that reads "Nightwing's ~~Room!~~ Cave! STAY OUT!" 

He's surprised when Jason leaves it up. 

* 

There's a lot that Kon could do in the future. He could catch up on what's going to happen to Wendy the Werewolf Stalker. Hopefully, she's dumped Cherub's useless ass once and for all. He could check on Serling and Guardian, maybe make some prank calls to Bart. 

Except he could do all of that at _home_. In his own time. He can't think of any reason to be here. Anything to do here. 

It would have been better to go _back_ in time. He could help Tana then, at least _see_ her more, maybe make some investments, that kind of thing. 

Bouncing around in Hypertime, though, should have taught him that time is majorly wiggy operation. He needs to learn that lesson -- or not learn it. _Remember_ it. 

So he stays away from newspapers and local news, which isn't exactly a hardship. Instead, he sticks with video games and the occasional men's magazine. Gossip rags, that kind of thing. 

"Whatcha got there?" Jason slaps the magazine out of Kon's hands. 

Bending over to retrieve it, Kon flicks his finger against the sensitive spot behind Jason's knee. "Some gossip tabloid thing. Pretty sure there's no real news in it, don't worry." 

Jason knees him in the chest as Kon flaps out the magazine, searching for the page he was on. 

"Ow," Kon adds lightly. He's totally lost his place, so he starts from the middle and flips through the pages. It's a jumble of photographs, red-carpet arrivals and starlets sunning themselves topless on foreign beaches. Royalty embracing their polo ponies, real-estate moguls balancing precariously on scaffolding. Some kind of ice-castle party on a fjord in the North Sea, the tuxedo'd guests like penguins against the barren landscape. 

Jason tries to knock the magazine out of his hands again. "You _like_ this shit? Lifestyles of the Rich and Stupid?" 

"Love it." Kon tightens his grip and squints at the pictures on the facing page. "Jeez, check it out." 

"What's that?" Jason peeks over the top of the page. Kon points to the central shot of a big, movie-star handsome guy with a blonde on one arm. His other arm's around a shorter, slighter guy, his face turned away, dark in the big man's shadow. 

"The divinely exuberant Bruce Wayne, caught here next to an iceberg with singer and conceptual artist Maria de Mantegua and his young traveling companion Timothy Drake, was the buzz of the party," Kon reads to Jason. "Man. If you're rich, you really _can_ get away with murder." 

"Come now," Jason says, his voice going high and false. "Batman never, ever kills. That'd be _wrong_." 

"The hell?" Kon drops the magazine. " _Wayne_ , the guy who killed his girlfriend? And now he's sailing around Europe having the time of his life." 

"Yeah," Jay says, picking it up and scanning the pages. "Where's his other boy-toy, I wonder?" 

"What're you talking about Batman for?" Kon kicks Jason, but gets no reaction. "That guy totally shot his girlfriend, remember?" 

"Don't remember a lot of things." Jason's voice sounds almost gritty. 

"Dude. What's Bruce Wayne got to do with Batman?" 

Jason blinks at him. 

"You're shitting me," Kon says. There's no way in heaven or hell that Bruce Wayne is Batman. So what if they both live in Gotham? Lots of people do. Jason's mouth twitches. "You're such an asshole." 

Jason tosses the magazine away. "I've heard that, yeah." 

"Can I have my mag back now?" 

Jason's locking himself in his office, and Kon's comfy on the couch, so he switches on the television. 

* 

All things considered, he might as well be back home. 

Except for the grouchy, far too hot for his own good roommate he seems to be stuck with. When they're screwing around, Jason is _awesome_. Kon's still getting used to the idea of a Robin who walks around in his boxers, scratching himself and drinking OJ from the carton, but it's a good idea. He doesn't mind getting used to it. 

Jason can be bizarrely touchy, though, when it comes to all things Batman and Robin. He's not like Kon's Rob; he doesn't get bitchy when Kon calls him "old chum" or anything. Instead, Jason either goes _silent_ or violent. Or both, which is really fucking scary. His mouth goes thin as a papercut, he starts throwing the knife at every possible target, and his face flushes the color of old blood. 

When that happens, Kon busies himself with the Xbox. There's no point apologizing, and anyway -- graphics have improved about a gazillion-fold since his time. He needs to study them. Enjoy them. For _science_. 

It's not that he, personally, is scared. Hi, basically invulnerable. It's just that -- Jason getting mad is scary, full-stop. Kon doesn't leave the apartment, because he needs to keep an eye on rage boy. 

Eventually, sooner or later, Jason runs out of steam. And then it's all okay. 

The sex later is always really good. So that helps. 

Jason fucks like he fights, all-out and half-crazed. Like teeth and nails are erogenous zones just as much as nipples and cock. 

* 

Two blocks down from Jason's place, on the opposite corner, there is a Cuban-Chinese diner that's open 24 hours. The Jade Coconut has become their default dining room. After patrol, in the middle of the afternoon when they wake up, any time. 

"Any progress?" Kon tosses a bottle of soy sauce from hand to hand while Jay finishes his dumplings. The last booth at the back is their regular table; both Eddie the night waiter and Sofia the day girl know their orders. Fried dumplings with extra sauce and two Diet Zestis for Jason, night market noodles with the meat of the day, shrimp toast and milk for Kon. 

Jason eats like _Bart_ , fast and messily, like he's inhaling his last meal every time. He scoops up the last of the sauce with a piece of Kon's shrimp toast, stuffs it into his mouth, and chews loudly. He doesn't answer until his plate is pushed away and his second soda drained. 

"With what? Removing the do-gooding stick up your ass?" He tilts his head and slumps back. "No, man. That thing's rammed _tight_." 

Kon flicks sugar packets across the table. Jason blocks them lazily. "With getting me _home_ , jackass." 

"Oh, that." Jason pushes the hair off his forehead and shrugs. "I'm not a magician." 

"But you _know_ them," Kon says and leans forward. It's a delicate subject, and he's not exactly a delicate guy. That much, he knows. But he can't stay here forever. 

Right? 

Jason is busy rubbing the paper wrapper from his straw between his palms, twisting it tightly, before setting it down on the green formica and applying a drop of melted ice to the tip. He watches the snake unwind with intense care, brow furrowed, like he doesn't do this _every_ time they're here. 

"Earth to anti-Robin," Kon says. "Jay. You know magicians." 

"Do I?" 

Kon sighs loudly. "Cap? The Marvels in general? How about that hottie, what's her name? Fishnets and --" 

"Zatanna." Jason doesn't look up from rolling the _other_ wrapper. 

"Her. Dude. Get her together with Mary, it'd be --" Kon rubs his chin and stretches. "Well, they'd be hotter than the _sun_. But, like, it could work, too." 

Jason didn't shave this morning. Afternoon, whatever. He scratches at his jaw and Kon can hear the whick-swick of his stubble under his nails. "It's complicated," he says finally, still not looking up. "Time and shit." 

"Well, yeah." Kon shifts in his seat; the ripped upholstery groans and sighs. He fiddles with some sticky spilled sugar, drawing circles with it, trying to figure out how to say what he needs to say. "I could call, um. The big guy." 

That gets Jason's attention. His gaze flickers sharply up, fastening on Kon. "You don't trust me?" 

Kon bangs his head against the back of the seat. "It's not that. Jeez. It's just --." He takes a deep breath. "He'd know what to do. That's all." At least Kon hopes so; the last time he went time-travelling, Clark basically strapped him to a nuclear warhead and let him fly. "Probably." 

Shading his eyes, Jason looks out the window. The tangle of muscles at the hinge of his jaw work silently for a long while before he says, "He's kind of. Not around these days." 

Kon's hand slams down on the table. "What?!" 

The corner of Jason's mouth twitches. "Like I said. It's complicated." 

There are _worlds_ of things that Jason's not telling him. Every so often, Kon gets the sense that he's locked in a tiny little gerbil run, playing on his wheel. The whole damn _universe_ goes on around him, unseen and huge, as he wriggles around the Habitrail. 

Now would be one of those times. 

"Dude," Kon says. "You want to explain that?" 

He expects Jason to say something snide. Some mean wisecrack that'll turn the situation back on Kon, or else a dare, some challenge to distract him. 

But Jason slumps a little more and crosses his arms loosely over his chest. "It's -- fucked-up. Shit went down and --" 

"And you can't tell me because of paradoxes and all that, yadda-yadda," Kon finishes for him. Jason frowns. Sometimes he looks _exactly_ like Kon's Rob, especially now, when he's deciding what to say. Kon swallows hard, feeling like he's got a jagged rock in his throat, and looks away. "I get it. It's okay." 

"No," Jason says. "It's not. It _is_ \--" He flattens his palms on the edge of the table. "Complicated." 

"But you'll figure it out." Kon tries to smile. "World's second greatest detective, right?" 

"Something like that," Jason says. "Look, I'll make some more calls." 

* 

The knife's still a problem. The only other thing Jason touches like he touches that knife is his own dick. Lovingly, with long strokes and soft little skimming fingertips. Most nights, Kon's able to keep it out of Jason's hands, but not always. 

And Jay trains with it, too, kissing the blade before hurling it with terrifying accuracy at a punching bag or sparring dummy. 

Unlike the silent-violent tantrums, Kon can't ignore that. 

He steps between Jason and the dummy and grabs Jason's wrist. "Look, Batman's crazy, we both know that. But this -- it's over the line." 

Jason swipes the sweat off his forehead. "Is it?" 

"Um, _yeah_. It's like vaulting over the line and flying away." 

Jason shuffles his stance, flicks his wrist free from Kon's hold, and the knife sails directly into the dummy's throat. Stuffing spills out. 

He's staring Kon down, his shoulders thrown back and chin tipped up. It feels like a dare -- it _is_ a dare. Kon's gut rolls and clenches in response. 

"The hell is _wrong_ with you?" Kon doesn't know why he's still talking. Talking never helped anything, not when he's the one doing the talking. If he was Rob, he could be all rational and convincing. If he was Clark, he could give Jason a bearhug, a kindly and intense stare that would reassure him, buck him up, let him know that Kon believed in him. 

But he's not either of them. Kon drops his shoulders and makes sure Jason can see his hands, loose, _not_ fisted. 

"I mean, where I'm from, _when_ I'm from? Man, you're -- you're _amazing_. You're --" 

"Dick," Jason mutters. 

"Fine, whatever." Kon bounces twice on his toes before diving forward, manhandling Jason's waist, shoving him back and down. "I'm a dick, sure, but you're --" 

Jason twists and kicks out, knocking Kon's head back. Yay, whiplash. Kon's eyes blur for a moment and then he hooks his leg around Jason's left ankle and tumbles on top of him. 

"Look, we're in this together, right? Stop being --" 

Jason tucks and rolls free. "Fuck that. I work alone." 

Kon bangs his head on the mat several times. "Could've fooled me." 

He can hear the hollow thumps as Jason batters the punching bag, then the wheezy groan of the chain as Jason shoves it away. When he opens his eyes, Jason's squatting just out of arm's reach, scowling at him. 

"We're not _partners_ , asshole," Jason says. 

Kon sits up, grinning. "Partner" sounds like they're...married. Or running a small business. "Jesus. Is that what Batman called you?" 

"Called me a lot of things." Jason leans back, eyes narrowed down to tiny blue glints. "Jay. Boy Wonder. Dearest. Mine, all mine..." 

The mat sticks to the back of Kon's thighs as he tries to scoot back. "Okay, okay. Heard enough --" 

"Sweetheart. Bastard, piece of shit. Love. My heart. Pretty, pretty boy, Robin. Trash. Motherfucker." Jason's grinning wide and mean now as Kon tries to stuff his fingers in his ears, grinning and crawling forward until his hands are planted on either side of Kon's hips and his breath's coming warm and damp over Kon's face. "Liked it best when he forgot he knew English, though." 

Kon can't remember how to breathe. "Jesus." 

"Mm-hmm --" Jason's front teeth scrape across Kon's jaw as his fingers squeeze the curve from hip to ass. His knee nudges against Kon's crotch and there's _no_ way Kon can find this hot, right? It's totally wrong, it's a lie and disgusting. Revolting. But Jason's got his other hand in Kon's hair now, his mouth whispering more lies against Kon's lips. "Called me God, too." 

"I --" Kon's hips buck as Jason's fingers slide down his crack, bunching up the fabric of his shorts before pushing under the waistband. "You're fucked _up_ , Jay --" 

"A little, yeah," Jason whispers, pulling Kon's hair, exposing his throat, rolling his hips into Kon's groin. Of course _he's_ hard, he's --. 

Kon bites Jason's shoulder. "Oh, _God_ \--" He's got two fingers pushing down Kon's crack, teasing the tight skin there, making Kon shake. "Jesus." 

"Him, too," Jason says, and Kon wiggles out of his t-shirt, plucks at Jason's, mumbles impatiently and confusedly until they're both naked, sweats around their ankles, and Jason's working one finger inside. "Mostly I go for 'Jay', though." 

"Jay --" Kon spreads his legs before he can stop himself, spreads and brings up his knees to deepen Jason's reach. Every time Jason does this, it feels like the first time, too much and not enough all at once. "I --" 

"I know." Jason's on top of him again, kissing him wet and messy, twisting his finger inside. Their dicks are lining up, _do_ line up when Kon can concentrate enough to get the TK wrapped around them, and then it's just -- motion. Like flying, thrusting into the heat of the aura, against Jay's belly, working back on that finger, biting on Jason's neck and sucking hard until he doesn't have to think any more. 

No wonder Jason likes to fuck so much. No space to _think_ , just motion and heat and it feels so fucking _good_. And he's seeing a Robin bent over in front of Batman and it's so _wrong_ , it's right, hot and dark as Jason's mouth, his hair and his fucking _finger_. His dick, slapping and spitting next to Kon's, thick with blood and heat. 

"Come for me?" Kon hears his voice, breath against Jason's ear, and spins them around until Jason's under him, finger pulling free. He wraps his legs around Kon's thighs, tips him over and Kon has to fight to work his hand under Jason, pawing at his ass, fingers slipping in the sweat, knuckle finally finding Jason's hole. Christ, it's so tightly _closed_ , it's --. 

"Depends --" Jay smirks up at him and tilts up his hips. "Need more than a fucking _finger_ , kiddo." 

"Right, um." Kon's head swings around; there's slick _somewhere_ in this apartment. He can't remember where. Jason's ass clenches around his fingers and then he fucking _wriggles_. 

"Just do it --" Jason's eyes are wide, pupils blown like someone in shock, and Kon's pretty sure this is a bad idea. 

But it's like talking; he sucks at thinking. 

He's good at _this_ , feeling, the heat blowing through him and Jason's smirk narrowing down to lips and teeth, daring him, and his dick throbs, aches, his hips snap forward --. 

He misses, his dick bending painfully. Jason laughs at him, crazed hyena-hysterics, before he reaches down and grabs Kon's shaft, slides his body down, then up, to meet him. 

"Very simple, grasshopper --" he says and Kon's cock shoots a little pre-come. Jason licks his lips. "Right, just like that, push --" 

He falls back, hips lifting up. Kon bites his lip as he pushes a little more. _Cramming_ himself in, it feels like, way too tight for this to work, but Jay's lifting his head off the mat again, mouth open, breath coming fast and deep. 

"Little more, little -- _fuck_ \--" His words break off and Kon grabs his hips, hauls him closer, and he's _in_ , surrounded and crushed and it's --. 

"Amazing, Jesus, I --" 

Jason slaps him. Aura's gone, the pain shoots down to Kon's dick, burying itself deeper. He covers Kon's mouth with his hand. "Stop talking, ass --. Just --. _Fuck_." 

Kon's thrusting like his life depends on it. Thrust -- his lips mold to Jason's palm -- thrust -- around the fat meat below Jay's thumb -- thrust -- then suck in the thumb and index finger. The mat squelches under his knees, under Jason's back, stuttering half a beat behind the thick _noise_ of each thrust, inside his ears, outside, all around them. When he really pushes -- like _this_ , and then again -- Jason flops back, then rises, twitching his hips, fucking back, and it's all too soon before Jason's head is bumping bang-bang- _bang_ on the edge of the mat and his torso is stretching, twisting, ribs standing out under cords of muscle, and his finger hooks over Kon's lower teeth, pries open his jaw, and Jason's shouting. Cursing. Coming with a quick couple of pumps of his hips as he spatters Kon's chest. Still cursing. 

Kon's just -- _pushing_ , no sound coming out of his mouth. Everything spirals downward, inside, corkscrewing until he's coming and Jason's laughing again. 

Kon lands on one hand, falling free, and he doesn't fall. He flies. Except here, where _all_ he does is fall, and fall some more, and he's empty, shivering, gasping. 

Jason's still laughing as he wiggles free. Sitting up, rolling his head against Kon's shoulder, gnawing and nipping, laughing. "Right, okay. So you're super at _something _\--"__

____

____

Kon's arm feels like lead as he tries to hit Jason. "Shut up --" 

Jason wraps himself around Kon, arms and legs, like an octopus. "So that's every supercherry popped now, right?" 

Sweat stings his eyes as Kon pats Jason's back, skimming the scars, tracing the lines of muscle. "You're keeping count?" 

"Maybe." Jason mouths his earlobe, then pulls away. He shakes himself like a dog, then grins. "Maybe I am." 

* 

One night, Kon gets separated from Nightwing ("When I've got the mask on, call me Nightwing." "Sir, yes, _sir_.") when he chases a dumbass kid who'd been breaking store windows down a side street. The kid disappears into a warren of housing projects. In there, it's dark as anything, booming with heavy bass beats. 

If Kon had telescopic vision, even just the X-ray shades, he'd be able to find the kid. But it's not like the kid's a ganglord or anything, so Kon lets him go. 

"Let that be a lesson to you, son!" he calls into the darkness, shaking his fist, and feels like a complete jackass. 

"Who are you? What do you think you're doing?" 

Kon spins around, finally finding the voice's source in a nook between a wire fence and a big dumpster. Tall and fair, the guy's pretty good-looking, broad through the shoulders, dressed head-to-toe in black. Like some kind of rich-man ninja. 

"Just, um." Kon rubs the back of his neck. "A concerned citizen?" 

The man shakes his head, sandy hair slipping across his eyes. "No. Saw you move. You're --" His smile's weak. "A professional." 

"Maybe," Kon admits. The guy seems... _sad_ , almost. "Am I trespassing or something?" 

The guy recrosses his arms, looking away. The light from a single street lamp plays down his profile. "He told me this was mine." 

"Who? Who told you -- _what_?" Kon shifts his weight. 

"Batman." There's that weak smile again as the guy's voice softens. "He -- this is _my_ city, he said --" 

That's weird. Why would Batman give away Gotham? Especially if Nightwing's here. 

He's not getting a sense of bullshit from this guy, though. He really seems to believe what he's saying. Kon raises his hands. "Hey, hey, easy. I'm not taking anybody's territory. I'm just --" Trying to get home. Maybe. Some day. "Tell Batman I --" 

Laughing, the guy glances back at Kon. "I'd like to tell him a lot of things." 

"Yo, Superdick!" Jay- _Nightwing_ shouts from the next roof. "Time's a-wasting!" 

Kon shakes the sad ninja's hand, feeling like he should hug the guy. "Gotta go. You take care, okay?" 

He nods, vague worry blurring his expression for a moment as he looks up toward where Nightwing's waiting. "You, too." 

"Who the fuck was that?" Nightwing demands when Kon touches down. 

"Dunno. Nice guy. Said he knew the Bat." 

Nightwing laughs. "Sure, him and every other wannabe. Let's go." 

Kon looks down, but the man is gone. "Where're we going?" 

"Got a line on that Rainblow crap," Nightwing says, checking his grapple, grinning widely. "You up for it?" 

"Rainblow? The gum?" 

Nightwing stands up straight. "The drug, man. Don't you ever _listen_?" 

"I listen," Kon says. Nightwing's got his hands on his hips, mask puckering up over his frown. After a bit, Kon adds, "Sometimes?" 

Rainblow, Nightwing tells him as they fly north and west, around the park, is like what would happen if Special-K, PCP, and Thanagarian jimsonweed got wasted, had an S &M orgy, and reproduced a demon lovechild. 

"Bad, bad shit," Nightwing concludes. "This fight's going to _rock_." 

Wearing that crazy-bright smile, he kicks in the window on the top floor of a warehouse. One shimmy of his hips and he's inside, yelling. Kon crouches in mid-air, right outside, waiting. 

But nothing happens. He'd been expecting shouts, curses, even gunshots. Whatever counts as a rocking fight for Jason. 

All he hears is furniture overturning and glass breaking. Dropping down a foot or so, Kon peers in through the window. 

Nightwing's in the middle of the huge room, breaking everything in sight, and when he sees Kon, he pulls back his arm and throws a handful of something. 

"Dude, what?" He ducks, and little capsules pitter-patter against his chest and the window. 

"This is your fucking fault!" Nightwing screams, advancing on Kon, face flushed the color of old blood. 

"Wait, _what_?" These days, it's like the only word Kon _knows_ is "what". He picks up one of the capsules and squints at it. Shimmery, a little slippery, the colors of the rainbow sliding across its surface. "Hey, I never took this shit." 

"I _had_ the slimeball who's distributing this!" Nightwing hauls off a couple wild punches and Kon feints easily, almost automatically. "But you had to play Eagle Scout --" 

Kon ducks inside the room and stays five feet in the air, just out of Nightwing's reach. From what he can see, this _was_ a lab and storage room, but Nightwing did a pretty thorough job of trashing it. It takes him several moments to extract sense from Nightwing's rant, but when Kon gets it, he drops to the floor with a thud. 

"Wait, _Louie_? At the party Louie?" 

On top of the single _un_ -overturned table, Nightwing is swinging a metal stool at the ceiling lights. "Yeah --" Swing, smash. "That." Swing, smash. "Louie." Swing, miss. Toss the stool at Kon. "Fuck! I had him --" 

With the TK, Kon pins Nightwing's arms behind his back. "The john wanted me to take some." 

"Who?" Nightwing twists around, right in Kon's face, lips drawn back over his teeth. "Who, motherfucker?" 

"The john! The one who took me there --" Everything starts to make sense now. Kon lets Nightwing go, snaps the aura back to his own body, and covers his eyes. The john had it first. _Made it myself_. He _gave_ it to Louie. "Oh, shit. He made it, it's him. _Shit_." 

"Oh, shit is right, asshole." Nightwing stalks away. "This shit's all over town, you know that? Kids are fucking _dying_." 

"No --" Kon sags back against the table. "I didn't --" 

"And I _had_ him --" Nightwing punches the wall, kicks a toppled table, keeps punching the wall until Kon wrestles him down. Nightwing's knuckles are ragged and bleeding, already swelling. His breathing is harsh, ragged, and he keeps trying to hit some _more_. 

Kon doesn't get enraged. He doesn't _get it_ , either. Rage, that is. 

Jason seems to live for it, though. Live _on_ it. 

* 

"You're not forgiven," Jason says sulkily the next afternoon. He wipes his mouth as he gets up off his knees. 

Kon's lying on the couch, warm all over, legs spread. He feels happy, _stupid_ , with coming. "Okay?" 

"Okay." Jason spits again before pulling on a shirt. "So now we're going to find your sugardaddy chemist." 

"Right," Kon says vaguely. "A plan." He pushes upright and shakes his head. "I could, like. Go back to the Stroll? Maybe he'll be there." 

Jason's unlocking his office door. "And maybe he won't. Stupid plan." 

"You've got a better one?" 

"Working on it," Jason says. The door slams shut behind him. 

* 

Whenever Kon pushes too hard about getting home, Jason pushes him away with words and fists. The occasional knife. But when Kon moves away -- mentions calling Clark, suggests getting home -- Jay yanks him back. If Kon concentrated on this enough, he'd get whiplash _and_ some kind of emotional concussion. But that's just how Batpeople _act_ , far as he can tell. 

Except for Cassandra. She doesn't have the push-pull crap going on; she's too weirdly direct for that. But when Kon asks about her, Jason mumbles something about her being "not around". Just like Clark and everyone else. 

"Man, I came to a _shitty_ time," Kon says after patrol. He peels down his black jeans, sheds the t-shirt, and drops onto the mattress. "No offense, but this time just _sucks_." 

Jason's rubbing witch hazel around his eyes, getting the last of the gum from the mask, and he smirks into the mirror. "It's not Oz, anyway." 

Kon leans on his elbow, tugging off his socks with the TK. "No superheroes and Gotham's just as scary as it ever was. It _bites_." 

Jason throws the cotton ball over his shoulder. "Gotham's great, asshole." 

" _Metropolis_ is great." Kon shoots out the aura, hooks it into the waistband of the Nightwing tights, and drags Jason back a couple feet. "Gotham's a shithole." 

"Beautiful shithole, though." Jason falls backward, arms spread, the same motion he uses when falling off a building. No powers, but the confidence that he'll never go splat; Kon's got to respect that. 

Tonight they busted up a meth lab out in Bristol _and_ two wanna-be pimps running a junior-high blowjob circle near Cathedral Square, so Jason's in a good mood. Tonight's not a push-away situation, but -- the other kind. The grabby, bite-y, _good_ kind. 

* 

Some nights, well after they're back from patrol, even after fooling around, Kon can't sleep. It's nothing he can put his finger on; he just tosses and turns, kicking out his legs, feeling restless and _wrong_. 

Those nights, Jason usually does one of two things. Either he punches Kon and kicks him out to the couch, or, if he's in a good mood, gets Kon off again with his hand. His mouth if he's in a _really_ good mood. 

Kon's achey and sore tonight, though, and he's not up to more sex. Sacrilegious as that sounds, it's true. So when Jason groans and throws the pillow at him, Kon turns on his stomach. "Tell me a story?" 

"What the _fuck_?" Jason's voice is thick and pissed. 

"There's nothing good on TV. I checked." 

"So?" 

"So I can't _sleep_ ," Kon says and rests his head on his arms. He can't help remembering that campout Young Justice had back in the day. As it got later, they all lay around the fire -- except for Bart, he kept running around to find stuff to throw in the fire -- and told stories. Cassie and Bart had the best ones; Robin and Cissie just talked about various training regimens. Secret listened closely, but she said she didn't have any stories. 

"And that's my fucking problem?" Jason rolls over onto his side, pushing against Kon. 

"Dude. I --" 

"Fine." Jason's sigh is heavy and melodramatic. He pauses, the mattress shifting as he seems to be getting comfortable, and Kon closes his eyes. "Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived in the circus. Maybe he was a street kid. It doesn't matter. One night, he met a big bat who was lonely and angry. But when he saw the boy, the bat took him home. The kid turned into a bird, then, a little, fast, _awesome_ one. He flew beside the bat every night and kicked some major ass. He made the bat laugh." 

"How's a bat laugh?" Kon asks. 

"Sonar." Jason goes quiet then. After a bit, Kon murmurs and wiggles closer. "Then the world exploded and the bird got taken away. The bat found a new bird, a better one." Jason pinches the skin between Kon's shoulderblades and moves so his head rests on Kon's upper arm. "So the boy was alone again. But he liked it much better that way. He was free now. And he never, ever had to do what he was told again. He made his own calls, did his own thing. He was --" 

"Large and in charge?" Kon shifts onto his side and slides his arm over Jason's waist. 

"Yeah. Master of the universe. So even when the world's most annoying brat came along and moved into his nest, he was okay. Kept on keeping on. The end." 

"Huh," Kon says. He's actually pretty relaxed now. "Not bad." 

"It's full of shit," Jason says, skating his fingertips down Kon's ass, around to his dick. "Hmm." 

Warmth melts, spreads, in the pit of Kon's gut. Maybe he is up for sex after all. 

* 

Kon is still yawning hugely when he returns from the first coffee-run of the afternoon. He can't make out what's being said from the hall, only that Jason's talking to a chick, so he heads for the big room. 

Luckily he remembers to pull on his jeans first, because when he _sees_ who's there, he wants to fly out the window, glass be damned. 

Calm as anything, beautiful as a snake, _Talia Al-Ghul_ is sitting on the couch. She hands a folder to Jay, then crosses her legs. Her head's tilted, as she listens to Jason. 

"-- totally fucked-, I mean, messed-up," Jason's saying, leaning forward, like he's imploring her. Asking _her_ for something? 

Kon hates hitting girls, but he'll make an exception. Give her a warning first. First he throws the tray of coffee cups on the floor. "Get out! The hell're you doing here? Jay, get back --" 

"Good morning," she says calmly. "Lovely to see you looking so...vital." 

Jason's head swings back and forth, from Kon to Talia and back again. "What's going on?" 

Kon chokes on his own breath and points at her as he stumbles forward. "Her! She! She works for _Luthor_. Get her out!" 

"No, man, she's --" Jason holds up his hand, then stands up. Kon keeps barreling forward. 

"Your father sends his best, I'm sure," Talia says. 

Kon stops, trips, and chokes again. "What?" 

Talia glances slyly at Jason. "You haven't told him?" Her laugh is like crystal, alien and sharp, as she claps her hands. "Oh, that's _wonderful_. You found your own beautiful orphan to play with! Did you tie him up and interrogate him, too? How very _sweet_." 

She says the word like she's got it between her teeth, like she doesn't want to taste it. Jason frowns, looks at Kon, then back at her. "What?" 

"That's what I want to know!" Kon shoves at Jason's shoulder, trying to get past. Just get his aura around her neck, push her out the window -- okay, the door. He doesn't kill. 

He must have hit Jay harder than he meant to; Jason's standing his ground, but when Kon reaches out to apologize, he _flinches_. 

"You never told me you --" Jason licks his lips and looks straight at Talia. "You work for Luthor?" 

"You worked for the detective," she replies as she smoothes down her skirt. "We all have our...regrets." She turns her dark, narrow eyes on Kon. "Now, little clone. How are we to trust that you are...who you claim to be?" 

_We?_ She talks like she and Jay are the team. 

Kon crosses his arms. "I'm not telling you anything." Walking backward, because there's _no_ way he's turning his back on her, he says to Jason, "You get rid of her. I'm --" Anger is hot and _spiky_ in his chest, smothering him. "Going out." 

He scrambles up the fire escape to the roof and flies from there southward. He shouldn't have let himself get so angry. Superman doesn't get angry; he _deals_ with the threat, but he never lets it get to him. 

Of course, Superman also doesn't screw around with a minion of Luthor's, either. 

He's such an _idiot_ , it's almost funny. 

He flies toward the ocean. A GCPD helicopter warns him away from Blackgate, so he loops west to the port. Sitting by the water always helped him think, back in Hawaii. 

But this isn't Hawaii. 

There's no sand, just slimy black rocks hard on the waterline. He perches on a relatively flat one, letting the foamy, smelly water lap at the toes of his boots, and hugs his knees to his chest. Even when he closes his eyes, trying to hear the tide, trying to let the sound of it lull him towards calm, he can't concentrate. 

He sees Talia's head tilted toward Jay, all intimately, sees the shock and confusion tangling over Jay's face. Hears her say "we", thinks of the rage that lit Jason up in the drug lab, sees the blood like lace over his swollen knuckles. 

This kind of thing keeps happening to Kon. He meets someone, and even if they're _clearly_ nuts, he somehow fools himself into thinking they're all right. He thought Jason was like Rob, and Tana, and Roxy: screwed-up, sure, but who isn't? 

Instead, Jason's just another Knockout, another Poison Ivy. Yet another gorgeous psycho that's got Kon wrapped around their finger. 

Which means that Kon's more of an idiot than ever, because he never learns. No wonder Superman never told him his secret identity. No wonder even _Rob_ wouldn't. 

Kon can't be trusted. 

What's worse, he can't be trusted not because he's _evil_ or even not-good. He's untrustworthy because he's a freaking moron. Who never learns, never thinks. 

He wants to go home. He wishes Tana was here, wishes they were both back in Hawaii, warm sand on their feet. Wishes she'd listen to him and tell him he's going to be okay. He wishes Rob and Bart were here, wishes they had some crazy monster to fight and argue about and rev up the Super-Cycle and just _fly_ through the air. 

It's getting dark when he finally gets up off his ass and runs his hands through his hair. No pretty Hawaiian sunset, just Gotham's gloom gathering close and thick. He can't sit here and feel sorry for himself for the rest of his life. 

He flies low through the dusk and finds himself over the outskirts of Alleytown. He hasn't been back since he left that night with the Rainblow john, but he's got friends there. Vee and Zarina and the rest of the guys -- Kon's got several twenties in his pocket and it doesn't matter if Jason got that money from Talia, he'll spend it on his real friends, get them a good dinner. And hopefully he'll start to remember that there are good people in the world. 

He hovers over Alleytown, trying to remember where the squat is in the snarl of crooked buildings and sloping roofs. 

Two blocks to the north, a tangle of lights from cop cars and an ambulance revolves lazily, barely penetrating the dusk. Kon heads for it, alights on a roof opposite the vehicles, and rubs his eyes. 

That's the squat, right there, yellow cop-tape wrapping the entrance, laced around the windows on the first floor. 

There aren't cops in Alleytown, not ever. 

He slips from this roof down to the next, then swings out across the street, his body jack-knifed like Jason's when he's showing off. He lands hard, on one knee, on the steep roof of the building next to the squat. He came up here a few times with Vee, just to lie back and pretend that they could soak up the rays. 

The windows on the top floor of the squat are all boarded-up, but the wood breaks easily under his fist, and Kon slips inside. He inches down the narrow stairs, remembering all over again the _smell_ of this place, close-packed bodies, sweat and smoke, perfume and hairspray mixing with canned spaghetti. 

On the second floor, way in the back, he finds Zarina huddled in the corner of her futon, head down, wig off, crying her eyes out. 

"Hey?" Kon tries from the doorway. He's never going to know what to say to a crying girl. "Long time no --" 

She looks up, mascara streaking her face, her lipstick smeared halfway across her jaw. "Carl?" 

"Yeah," he says, easing down next to her. "Sorry about, um. Disappearing." 

She slaps his cheek hard. "We thought you were _dead_ , asshole!" 

"Ow?" Kon rubs his face and tries to smile. "I'm not, though. Cheer up?" 

Zarina's got _a lot_ of upper-arm power; he feels it all the way to his gut when she slaps him again, and then a third time. 

"Okay," Kon says, holding her wrist. "I'm thinking you're not crying over me." 

She twists away, yanking back her hand and pounding the wall. "Vee. Vee's --" 

"The cops got him?" 

Her false nails claw at a collage of supermodels, scratching it off the wall, ripping it to shreds. "The cops don't give a shit about _him_." 

"I --" Kon closes his mouth when he hears heavy treads coming up the stairs. 

"That's them," she says, pulling on her kimono and standing up, shaking out her short hair. "I'll --" Her hand waves vaguely and then she's gone. 

"Friend of yours?" Jason, or Nightwing, or whatever the hell's he calling himself tonight, is crouched in the window. He's suited-up, wearing the mask, but Kon's not sure of anything. Let alone names right now. 

Kon flops back on the futon. "What are _you_ doing here?" 

Nightwing shoulders him aside, squatting next to the futon. "Got a tip about the Rainblow asshole." He knocks Kon's knee. "Little guy took a swandive off the opera house this morning. About seventy milligrams of Rainblow in his system and a little black book that brought cops down here." 

"Let me guess," Kon says and covers his eyes. He knows Jason's talking about Vee, and that thought's a cold, jagged chunk in his chest, but it's nothing compared to the acidic _heat_ in his throat. "Talia tipped you off?" 

"She's not --" 

"You listened to _her_? For all you know, she's the one selling that shit --" 

"Info was good," Jason says softly. "Wasn't it?" 

Kon's trying to breathe. He doesn't want to argue any more, but he's got nothing else. "Sure, but --" 

"So the source might be poison." Jason rubs both hands over his face. He sounds rough, tired, and Kon can't help but think of Knockout again. "Look, she really helped me out once. I was --" 

Before he's aware of it, Kon's flying upward, knocking his head on the rough plaster ceiling. "That's how they get to you! Bring you all the way down so you're, like, _codependent_ on them, and then --" He bangs his fist into his palm. "Bam! You belong to them!" 

"You really do watch Oprah, don't you?" 

"Not important!" Kon shouts. 

Jason stands up, folding his arms over his chest, pacing. "We need to find this guy, man. We need --" His mouth twists into a snarl, darkening as he gets more and more frustrated. "Shit. What do we need? We need --" Shoulders hunched up around his ears, he hits the wall and the vibrations shudder through the ceiling, through Kon. "We need --" 

"A lead." Kon floats slowly downward, a scrap of newspaper on a breeze's lull. 

"Yeah." Jason looks around, lost, like he's hoping the lead will appear in Zarina's little, bare room. "I'm no fucking detective, I --" 

Well, _that's_ bullshit. Kon moves closer. "Sure you are." 

Jason whirls away. "I hit shit, okay? I hit shit and blow crap up and --" Knocking his forehead against his palm, Jason slides down the wall. "I'm not a detective." 

"Dude." Kon crouches next to him and flicks his finger against the side of Jason's mask. "You're _Nightwing_." 

He doesn't know what else to say. What to do, either. Jason's just _huddled_ here on the floor, motionless and silent. Kon rocks his weight from foot to foot. Should he hug him? Slap him around? No, slapping's for hysteria. This is the opposite of hysteria. "Um. It's simple, see? You Nightwing, me Superboy. World's finest. Sorta." 

"Bullshit," Jason mutters. 

Kon stuffs his hands into his pockets. "You're Nightwing." 

"How do you know?" 

"Um. Dude. Maybe your _suit_?" 

Jason plucks at his sleeve. "Anyone could put this suit on --" 

"Right, but." Kon rubs his hands up and down his thighs as he tries to find the right words. "See, like -- I'm Superboy. Still. Even though Zarina sold my suit and I lost the **S** \--" 

As he fumbles through the explanation, Jason rolls his eyes and smirks. Kon punches his shoulder and lies back. It's like he's starting to understand something for the first time; thinking isn't something he's very good at it, but the whole identity-question is starting to make a rough sort of sense. 

It has something to do how you act, maybe? Kon can't put it in words. And he still doesn't know what to do with Mr. Morose. 

He settles for putting his hand on Jason's shoulder, fully expecting him to flinch away again. 

Jason looks at him sidewise. He doesn't flinch, but he doesn't relax, either. "Yeah, we've got a lot to talk about." 

"Later," Kon tells him. 

Zarina's back now, knotting her kimono tight around her waist. "Your friend staying, Carl?" 

Jason snorts at the name and Kon shrugs. "Don't know. Give him a minute?" 

Zarina nods and sits at the makeshift vanity, glass bricks stacked up and holding a length of plywood. She redoes her face, slowly, almost meditatively, stroking on mascara, peering at herself in the cracked mirror, rubbing lotion on her hands, into her cheeks. Jason hasn't moved, just tilted against Kon, and they sit in silence. 

Vee thought he could fly, Zarina tells them over dinner, courtesy of Talia's tainted money. The john kept coming back, looking for Kon, and took a liking to Vee ("You know Vee, up for anything and everything"). Fed him Rainblow until Vee was so strung-out, Zarina and the others were considering kicking him out of the squat. Then, this morning, he started talking about flying, finding Oz, going over the --. 

"Rainbow," Jason says. He's still wearing the mask, but Kon can't think of him as anyone other than _Jay_. 

Zarina points her chopsticks at Jay. "Give the pretty boy a prize." 

"Dude, we have to --" Kon doesn't know what they have to do. He shakes his head. "We _have_ to." 

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," Jason says flatly. "Only thing is, the cops don't know _shit_ about this guy, you can't even remember the make of his fucking _car_ , and all we've got is --" 

"He's got a suite in the Arms," Zarina says, and while Kon and Jason just _stare_ at her, she steals Kon's plate of dumplings. "Gotham Arms, way uptown." 

"You didn't tell the cops?" Jason asks. 

Zarina munches thoughtfully. "He'd just buy 'em off. Then where would we be?" 

"Right," Kon says. He's sure he should be used to how things change on a _dime_ in Gotham, but -- he's not. He's really not. 

"I want a costume like you two," she adds. "If we're going to do this, I want something _flattering_." 

Jason grins, and Kon can't help it -- maybe he _is_ a moron, it doesn't matter -- he grins back. Grins wider when Jason slings his arm around Zarina's shoulders and kisses her wetly. "Think we can do that, sweetheart." 

* 

Jason's office is, apparently, loaded with a Broadway show's worth of wardrobe options. He lends Zarina a slinky black-and-red costume, all plunging neckline and nipped-in waist; it makes her look like a giant anime goddess, especially when she slides on the pointy mask. He also gives her his knife. 

"Hey --" Kon tries to protest. 

"You know how to use it?" Jason asks. 

Zarina turns the blade so it catches the light. "Oh, yeah. _Hell_ , yeah." 

"Good." Jason wraps his arm around her waist, heading for the window. "We'll change when we get there," he tells Kon over his shoulder from the fire escape. "C'mon, Superboy." 

"Right, right." Kon hurries after them. 

The plan came together quickly: he and Jason'll show up at the john's door. Say they're a present from Louie, thanks for all the asshole's hard work, and once they're in, they'll get the answers they need. Zarina's going to be backup, and if Kon's a little nervous about how much she's enjoying this, he can't exactly _say_ anything about it. 

Mostly because _he's_ enjoying this, too. He's got a zillion things to talk about with Jason, but right now, they're in action, and this is Kon's favorite time. 

"Christ," Zarina says when they get to the roof of the west wing of the Gotham Arms. She shakes out her red wig and grins dazzlingly. "So far uptown, my _nose_ should be bleeding." 

"Save the blood for the asshole," Jason says. Kon starts to worry again, but then Jason laughs and tosses the small duffel bag at his chest. "Get pretty." 

So Kon's back in his hustler-wear, black jeans so tight he can barely bend his knees, muscle shirt whose red matches Zarina's costume. At least Jason's wearing a similar outfit, but he looks _comfortable_ in it, even as Zarina sketches the kohl around his eyes. 

"There's a utility closet down the hall," Jason tells Zarina. "Just use the little speaker and it should pick everything up." 

She nods, pats the knife in her belt, and kisses each of them on the cheek. "Mother-fucking-hen," she says lightly. "You two go on. Give him a show." 

It _is_ a show. Kon's half-amazed that their weak line gets them inside, but the john -- "call me Roy G. Biv, baby" -- remembers him. _Welcomes_ him and his friend "Bruce", asks what's been keeping him, offers them the very best in Rainblow and alcohol. 

"Later," Jason-Bruce says silkily, tugging Kon close and licking his neck. "Don't want to lose the...mood." 

Roy's eyes widen before he smiles narrowly. "Of course not. You're a _pro_ , aren't you?" 

"Sure am." Bruce hooks his fingers in Kon's beltloops and walks backward to the bedroom. Roy follows them, his bare feet squeaking on the marbled tile. 

"Dude --" Kon stutters as Bruce shoves him back on the bed and crawls up his body. "What?" 

"Giving him a show," Bruce says in his ear, loud enough for Roy to hear. "Say my name? Say it _loud_." Over his shoulder, he asks Roy, "What would you like? Sir?" 

Kon's _sure_ that Roy can hear the sarcasm in Jay-Bruce's voice. But when he cranes his neck up, Roy's settled in plush chair, hand in his pants already. "You seem to be in charge. Go wild." 

"Don't have to tell me --" Bruce says, knots both hands in Kon's hair, and kisses him breathless. He's already thrusting lightly against Kon's crotch and it has to be the most fucked-up thing in the world that Bru-Jay's getting _hot_ from -- from _this_. Lying, playacting, wiggling against him and moaning into his mouth. 

Kon gasps, vision swimming, as Bruce slides off him, undoing his fly and peeling down his jeans. 

"Look at that," Bruce says, stroking Kon until he's not half-hard any more. He's _hard_ and he has to fist his hands in the quilt, try not to think about Roy's evil eyes on them. Bruce twists his grip, tightening it and swirling his thumb over the head, smearing pre-come until Kon's hips buck up. 

" _Bruce_ ," he hisses. "Jesus, _please_." 

He hears Bruce's knees hit the floor, feels his hands on his thighs, spreading him wide, and it's all familiar, all _good_ , so he says the fake name again. And again. 

And nothing prepares him for the wet, slick tension of Bruce's mouth taking him in. Not like Jason, not the eager, half-pissed sucking Jason does, but something smoother, somehow _tighter_ , so wet and tight that he's got to be pushing into Bruce's throat. He can't stop thrusting; Roy's murmuring encouragement, but it's barely audible over Bruce's humming moan, this yearning _keening_ noise wrapping around Kon's dick, traveling into his balls when Bruce pulls on them, rolls them in his palm, takes him all the way to the root. 

Bruce's head -- dark hair, blue eyes, _familiar_ \-- is bobbing over Kon and he's lost in the lie, lost and on the verge of shooting half his _spine_ into that sweet mouth -- when the lights in the room crackle golden. 

"What?" Roy's shouting. 

"Mmmm," Bruce's moaning. 

"Kon! Oh my God, _Kon_!" Bart's yelling. 

_Bart_? 

Kon shudders, sitting up, his hips still rocking hard into Bruce's mouth, and --. "Christ, _Bart_?" 

Bart -- no. _Impulse_ , crackling with gold lights, running in place. "I found you! I can't believe it, they said it probably wouldn't work, but I had to try and then I did and I kept messing up but now I found you, I can't believe it!" He tilts his goggled-head and frowns. "What are you doing?" 

"The fuck?" Roy's up and out of the chair, stumbling when his pants knot around his ankles. "The fuck is going on here?" 

Kon shoves Bruce's -- Jason's -- head away and folds up, hiding himself. "Imp, what the _hell_?" 

"Was he _sucking_ on you?" Impulse comes closer, the strands of gold light clinging to him, trailing across the floor. "You got a snakebite?" 

Jason's on his feet, mouth shining with spit, wrestling Roy down and punching him in the face. 

Zarina's running into the room, knife in her hand, mask slightly askew as her red hair streams out behind her. 

"We have to go!" Impulse grabs Kon's hand and pulls him to his feet. "The portal's not very reliable, _c'mon_ \--" 

Kon's got his jeans back up, thank _God_ , and the room's whirling around him. "Ja--Nightwing?" 

Nightwing throws Roy at Zarina and calls out, "Get the fuck out of here!" 

"C'mon --" Bart yanks on Kon's hand. "We have to --" 

Jason's right in Kon's face now, hand curled around his neck. "I --" Kon tries to say, but Jason bites his upper lip, makes him shut up. 

"One thing," Jason says, low and urgent and _that's_ his real voice, not crazy but not Robin, either. Too rough, too full of _feeling_. "Don't fight yourself, okay? _Ever_. Remember that." 

"But I --" Kon says. Bart's pulling Kon's arm out its socket, starting to run. "What?" 

"Go." Both hands on Kon's chest, Jason _propels_ Kon after Bart, and the light gets brighter, going liquid around them. 

Bart is running faster now, hauling Kon forward. "I looked for you everywhere!" Bart shouts over the thrumming _zoom_ of the light. Since when is light audible? "But you're coming home now, and everything's going to be okay. I did it! Robin's gonna be so psyched!" 

As Kon looks over his shoulder, there's the taste of Jason in his mouth, the shimmer of light closing over his fading face, and then pure _light_ streaking past them. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Frank O'Hara's "The Three-Penny Opera":  
> ...If I'd been in Berlin in  
> 1930, would I have seen you  
> ambling the streets like  
> Krazy Kat?  
>                 Oh yes. Why,  
> when Mackie speaks we  
> only know what he means  
> occasionally. His sentence  
> is an image of the times.  
> You'd have seen all of us  
> masquerading. Chipper; but  
> not so well arranged. Air-  
> ing old poodles and pre-war  
> furs in narrow shoes  
> with rhinestone bows.  
> Silent, heavily perfumed.  
> Black around the eyes. You  
> wouldn't have known who  
> was who, though. Those  
> were intricate days.


End file.
